


If You Think This Is Real Life

by QueenBoo



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Illness, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sickfic, canon compliant reasons for Naboo to be out of town, canon typical bantering, homemade monsters, mentions of minor injury, references to the radio series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 53,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24197644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoo/pseuds/QueenBoo
Summary: An adventure is had, strange things start happening about the flat, and Howard is sick. Guess it's up to Vince to save the day. Should be easy right?
Relationships: Howard Moon/Vince Noir
Comments: 14
Kudos: 21
Collections: Bringing Back the Boosh 2020 Fic Exchange





	If You Think This Is Real Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [terminalmargaret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/terminalmargaret/gifts).



> Written for Bringing Back the Boosh 2020 exchange for the prompt: Howard gets a horrible cold/flu and Vince has to play nursemaid. 
> 
> For terminalmargaret - I hope I did the prompt justice, I apparently can't write anything short or without angst so have a (long winded) tale of mutual pining and adventure! I hope you enjoy it <3

_1\. Though I don't know any of them,_   
_You're city across with your phantom friends_

Throughout their long friendship, both Howard and Vince have been responsible for their fair share of things going horribly wrong. 

They were seasoned players of the blame game, managing to find a discussion about who’s fault any given misadventure was even if the answer seemed obvious. Every time. As far as they were concerned there would be a loophole and through that it became _both_ of their problems. 

Sure, Vince would admit he shouldn’t have piled all those bin bags in the alley but in the same breath insist that Howard should have told him about bin men _long_ before a drug addicted fox had a chance to make a home in their refuse. Similarly, Howard will forever have to live with the fact it was _he_ who picked up a murderous green hitchhiker, but he’ll always argue had Vince not thrown a tantrum right out of the vehicle in the first place then he wouldn’t have done it, would he?

Point being; they always found ways to share responsibility. 

This time was an exception. This time it was Vince’s fault in its entirety; Howard would accept not even an ounce of blame. 

It was _Vince_ that would disappear every weekend with a different set of brainless trendies, surfing on the wave of whatever was ‘in’ at that particular moment. It was _Vince_ who seemed to crave their attention and adoration more and more with each passing day; had taken to lying as easy as breathing in order to stay relevant. 

_“I might have told these girls I was a warlock.”_

On some level it’s impressive, Howard supposes. The degree of performance he pulls off in the name of being invited into someone’s bed. If nothing else it demonstrates a remarkable level of dedication and creativity. Vince is capable of painting scenarios into existence with his words alone if he puts his mind to it. Howard’s been on the receiving end plenty of times; a persuasion the colour of crimson blended with a splash of ego boosting electric blue and Howard had fought a kangaroo. Those Camden dollies didn’t stand a chance. 

It’s imaginative seduction at its finest. 

Being the sad friend left behind while all of that goes on is decidedly less impressive. 

Consequently it comes as no surprise when it is Vince that stumbles into their home late one Saturday night, just this side of tipsy, and declares that he’s met some _beautiful girls._

“They’re gorgeous ‘oward.” He breathes as he slumps next to him and begins the laborious process of removing knee high boots while drunk and dressed in frighteningly tight clothing. “Went to _SpaceHop._ You know, that new Sci-Fi themed place?” 

Howard doesn’t know, why would he? He hums an agreement nonetheless because it will keep Vince talking in that annoyingly endearing way he has when drunk; voice pitched up slightly and soft around the edges in a barely there slur.

“The outer space look is _so_ in, you know,” As he makes a failed attempt at unzipping his boots, he loses his train of thought. Lapses into temporary silence as uncoordinated fingers tug weakly on an uncooperative zip.

Howard lets him struggle for now, if only because it’s slightly amusing. 

‘Outer space look’ certainly explains Vince’s getup for the evening. The other man looks like a celestial being that has crashed to earth in all it’s shiny and androgynous glory. Makeup (that manages to make his already sharp features even sharper) is blended with neon colours and intermittent glitter. The clothes and accessories are just as space age and futuristic; a silver headband keeping the glitter sprayed hair from his face, bangles adorning his wrist jangle periodically with his movements, there’s a silver pendant around his neck in the shape of a _rocket_. 

Even his outfit; flowing silver blouse with a deep V neckline and shimmering trousers made from a plastic looking holographic material that changes colour depending how the light catches it - it’s hypnotising. 

And they’re _translucent_. 

It isn’t exactly completely _see through,_ and Vince isn’t stupid enough to go without a layer underneath, but it _is_ vague enough in it’s transparency that Howard can spot hints of skin. Subsequently, he keeps his eyes averted from all the important areas. 

“It was genius.” Vince continues eventually. Having abandoned one boot he switches to the other, obviously hoping to have more success on that front. “All the drinks glowed in the dark and everyone looked like aliens. Or people from the future.” 

“What about aliens from the future?” 

“Yeah, those too.” His eyes are wide and sparkling with joy as he talks; Howard finds his mouth twitching into a smile like an automatic response. “And these girls, Howard.” 

Watching Vince struggle with his shoes is a little like watching a baby deer walk for the first time; starts out a bit cute, a tad funny even, but the more they try (and fail) you start to feel sorry for them. He ends up reaching down to bat Vince’s hands away and sets about helping him peel off the offending footwear. 

As the first slides free it squeaks comically. “What about them?”

Vince slumps, relinquishes responsibility of shoe removal to Howard. “There’s two of them.” he drawls; brows wiggling suggestively. “Two of us.” 

Deja vu washes over him like a tidal wave and settles in the pit of his stomach uncomfortably. He subconsciously braces himself for the ‘but’ that is surely about to come. The catch. The snag. It’s never that simple, not where Howard was involved, there was always a hurdle. 

“Might have told ‘em I’m part alien.” 

Vince’s second boot hits the floor with an unceremonious _thunk_ . He hopes the look he gives his best friend is suitably scolding rather than just utter disbelief. “Why, _why_ would you do that?” 

“Because,” In reply the little tart catches his tongue between his canines; grin a little sinful. “They were _well_ into it.” 

One thing is for certain, Vince has a talent for seeking out the most open minded people to spin his tales to. A people whisperer as well as an animal one. It was probably why a much younger and much blonder Vince sought him out when they were just children; slipped into an empty seat beside him during lunch and instantly launched into a retelling of his childhood in the jungle. Even then it was like he’d known that Howard would _always_ believe what Vince told him. 

“You pulled some girls that think you’re an alien.” He clarifies once more. 

Sinful morphs into smug. “Yeah.” But then the smile is gone and he pushes himself upright from his previously reclined position. Eyes narrow at Howard conspiratorially. “But I gotta _prove_ it first.” 

Howard’s eyes roll skywards because _here we go_. “Naboo will kill you if you go through his stuff again.” 

“Nah, he likes me too much for that.” Vince springs up like an overeager toddler and saunters off down the hall to the Shaman’s room. Socked feet padding gently against the floor as he goes. Over his shoulder he calls, “Coming?” 

Naboo and his familiar were, as they so often are lately, away. Had left that very morning on a retreat with the shaman council. Team building, apparently. 

It had initially been rather surprising that the council were interested in building teams at all considering the insults Howard had heard thrown around during his, albeit limited, exposure to the group. Until Naboo had helpfully informed him that the Shaman Council's idea of team building was to spend a whole week getting off their faces in a spectacular fashion and then _never_ talking about anything that may or may not happen ever again. 

That had made more sense than the mental image of Tony Harrison trying to take part in a trust fall exercise. 

Regardless, he doesn’t follow Vince on his quest for mischief. Mainly because this is one of those annoying instances that the younger man is absolutely right; Naboo would be marginally irritated should Vince go through his things - might even turn his back on him for a brief spell - however as soon as Howard becomes involved he goes from put out to infuriated. 

Because it’s Howard. 

Even the potential company of a lady friend wasn’t enough of an incentive. Not when their landlord’s tolerance of him was wearing thinner and thinner as of late. 

So he pointedly grabs for the book he had abandoned when Vince stumbled up the stairs and flips to where he left off. _The Extensive History of Corduroy: Volume One_ promised to be just as exciting as anything Vince was offering, he was sure. 

To his credit, that resolve lasts about four and a half minutes (at least two minutes longer than usual) before he realises he’s not taking in any of the words on the page. Instead his brain uses this time to conjure up all kinds of trouble that Vince is likely to get into without his supervision.

He’s hurrying in his friends footsteps and his book abandoned before he can think any better of it. 

For Vince’s own good, really. 

_2\. I made a mess of your heart  
I think we're falling apart  
I made you wait in the rain  
You said you'd never change_

It is definitely Vince’s fault they find themselves in what Howard can only assume is a _completely_ _different dimension._

He’d always been fascinated by mirrors; absorbed by them even. The man was a budgie trapped in a human body. A born and bred Narcissus. Naturally, when he had come across one while rooting through Naboo’s endless amount of magical artifacts, he immediately sniffed out adventure. Apparently, this was a mirror he recognised. 

A doorway _as well_ as a mirror. 

That doesn’t stop him preening in front of it for a good five minutes. As he turns his face this way and that his hair sparkles like stars in a night sky thanks to all the added glitter; practiced digits pull and push at the strands until Howard is certain he’s seeing constellations form. He has to clear his throat to snap them both back to attention lest he be trapped in his reflection for the next hour or two. 

“Oh, right - I’ve seen this before!” Vince screeches excitedly. “This is how I got you back from Monkey Hell that one time.” 

There’s no chance to ask how a mirror factored into his rescue from Monkey Hell; Vince slips through the disturbingly liquid like glass without pausing long enough to think it through. Howard barely manages to gasp _‘Vince!’_ around his panicked confusion.

He blinks at what is left behind (which happens to be his own dumbstruck reflection) unsure where to go from here. 

Logic would dictate that he should follow but he’s not sure how. He doesn’t make a habit of hopping through mirrors like Vince clearly does - they’d taken a cab back from Monkey Hell - and generally, he wasn’t a fan of them even when they weren’t doorways. They can be harsh things, mirrors.

Does he just hop through? What if there’s some sort of rule: _Electro boys only_. 

It can’t be longer than a minute or two but his worry starts to outweigh any sort of reluctance. Niggling in the back of his head is the reminder that Howard so often acts as his friend's impulse control (and occasionally vice versa) that should he not be there he could get up to all sorts. 

The berk has probably already found trouble and it’s cousin, chaos. 

He’s also painfully aware that Vince is still under the influence of alcohol - inter-dimensional travel might not be best done while drunk. 

A natural protective instinct that always seems to come into play where the younger man is involved finds him brushing his fingers to the surface of the mirror tentatively. It isn’t solid, which is a relief. At least he won’t break his nose trying to step through it. 

He huffs a deep sigh, curses Vince Noir to all known deities, and presses forward. 

It’s strange. A bit like going over the drop on a roller coaster at the same time as sneezing - a rush and a swoop all at once. The other side doesn’t appear to be any more than a small room filled with mirrors, hardly the alien planet they were seeking, and thankfully Vince is right there. Close enough in fact that Howard stumbles into his back as he enters, hands coming up to steady himself on the younger man’s upper arms. 

Vince doesn’t seem to mind, he’s smirking giddily at a creature made completely from dusters and jay cloths who sounds like he’s mid-lecture. 

“-for if you choose wrongly, you will replace me here in the mirror world for all eternity-” 

Once again, Howard just about manages to breathe a _‘what!’_ when Vince laces their fingers together and tugs him hard through a large ornate looking mirror while the cloth man’s back is turned. 

Wherever they emerge is foreign and humid… and it’s storming. 

All of this? Definitely _Vince’s_ _fault_ , and his frustration is sudden and overwhelming in its intensity. 

“How did you know which mirror to go through?” He asks incredulously, raising his voice over the volume of the rain hammering down around them. The droplets are larger than anything he’s ever seen. It looks _red_ and the image of it is disturbing enough to make Howard’s stomach turn. 

“Didn’t.” Vince shrugs one shoulder; the epitome of calm. Still clutching Howard’s hand, he hurries them a few metres to what he assumes is a large tree and urges them to take cover under its turquoise branches. “Met him before, though, and he won’t stop going on until you just pick one.” 

“We could have gotten trapped there!” It doesn’t take long before the frustration wilts in favour of a more pressing concern. “Where are we?” 

“You know I’d bet you _can’t_ choose wrong,” Vince continues as if not even listening (he probably wasn’t). Cobalt eyes find his, a comical grin spread on his face. “Reckon he’s just a lonely bit of fabric hoping people will stay longer if they have to do some thinking before they go.” 

Howard frowns at him. “That still doesn’t tell us where we are, Vince.” 

That shrug again, careless and completely unconcerned. Even if Vince wasn’t a little tipsy, he's still _Vince_. Abject terror isn’t really in his vocabulary, but it is in Howard’s. “We should go back through before we get killed.” 

“What’s gonna kill us out here?” Vince asks; a clap of high pitched thunder breaks around them.

And as if completely scripted - a figure emerges from the foliage. 

Silhouetted in the darkness it looks horrifying. Large pointy ears and eyes that glow menacingly. They’re tall, at least a foot taller than Howard, and coupled with ropey long limbs it’s like something from a horror movie. 

It advances on them. Howard screeches in a _completely_ manly way, clinging to his friend’s arm as he does. Three more of the figures appear behind the first, Vince clings to him in return. 

He’s just started gently pleading for his life when he hears, “Howard, look!” 

They look like people.

Well a bit _._ If people had twitching cat-like ears on their heads and bright yellow eyes that glint with every flash of lightning; but other than that their features were very reminiscent of humans. 

Aside from the skin. Their skin was glittering, a lot like how it does in those twilight books (that he definitely _hasn't_ read). A brief and hysterical thought surfaces that they might have tripped into a universe of vampires and werewolves; and honestly that wouldn’t be the weirdest thing they’ve had to come up against. 

These beings appear to be harmless, at least. The four of them just hover at a respectful distance and observe them with mixed expressions of awe and confusion. 

Actually, the longer they stare it becomes clear they aren’t looking at him. Howard is hit with another nauseating sense of familiarity as he realises they’re all looking at Vince. Vince who is just as glittery as them dressed as he is in his current getup. 

“Are you lost?” The one closest to them asks, it’s voice hits him right in the chest - deep and booming. 

At least they speak English. 

All Vince can say, gazing up at the shiny creatures with wide excited eyes, is an unhelpful, “Genius.” 

“Uh, no.” Howard steps in, once he’s found his voice again. “No, sir, we’re fine. Just- just enjoying the weather.” 

Four pairs of luminous eyes swing to him and he regrets opening his mouth immediately. All the admiration that had been there for his friend melts away when they’re confronted with Howard. The way they look at him is perhaps the same way one might look at an injured puppy; all morbid curiosity and righteous sympathy. 

The same one as before, the glitteriest one in Howard’s opinion, asks Vince again, “Are you lost?” 

Vince casts a knowing smirk in his direction; Howard could have gone without knowing just how much he was enjoying this, but there it is, flashing behind his irises. “Not really, we know how to get home.” He tells them. “We’re just visiting.” 

“Briefly. Visiting _briefly_.” Howard cuts in, again a mistake, they all seem to frown at him this time. 

“Your pet,” The thing says to Vince. It’s tone is confused with an undercurrent of warning. “He speaks freely.” 

Affronted, his automatic reaction is to open his mouth and argue. _He is not a pet, no sir_. But Vince, clicking on to the situation faster than most would give him credit for, jabs an elbow into Howard’s ribs and flashes a winning smile at the other beings. “Yeah, he’s not really house trained.” 

All four of the creatures nod in understanding, Howard wants to be sick. “Anyway,” Vince continues easily. “We just popped in for a quick look around- really gotta get back though cause you know, Howard hasn’t had his vaccinations yet and he really shouldn’t be out without his leash so…” 

There’s a brief moment that they’re being stared at and his fingers dig into Vince’s arm a little harder than necessary, concerned they're about to be kidnapped and sacrificed or something. It would be pretty on brand for the sorts of things that normally happen to him when in Vince’s company. 

But then, a new voice from the back chimes in, softer. “You have come through the mirror?” 

“Uh… Yeah.” 

At once the four start sharing looks. Little hissed mutterings of _‘The mirror folk’_ and _‘We knew this would come’._ Even Vince clicks on that something might be amiss when predatory grins slowly adorn their faces, Howard feels him tense. Notices how he plants his feet; ready to fight or flee. 

“If you are from beyond the mirror then you are the one of whom it is written!” They announce suddenly. Vince’s tension melts in favour of buzzing excitement. 

“That’s me,” He agrees easily. 

“This is a great honour.” A different one of them says. “Before you go, we must impart gifts upon you, for good fortune and your blessing upon our people.” 

Any hope Howard had of getting out of here quickly dissolves like a Berocca in the rain. If there’s anything Vince likes more than a present its being worshiped and these people are offering both. “Sure! I’ll bless you, yeah.” All four of the beings nod enthusiastically and disappear back into the brush. 

While they’re gone, Howard sees their chance. Uses the grip on his friend’s arm to attempt an escape but he’s met with solid resistance. “Vince, come on.” 

“What?” 

“We can go back through the mirror, let’s go.” 

Surprising no one, Vince seems hesitant. An addict to attention, he is clearly unwilling to leave somewhere that offers it so freely. 

But the rain hasn’t stopped the entire time they’ve been here and they are both drenched to the bone; clothes hanging off of them like dead weights. Vince isn’t even wearing _shoes._ So excited as he was upon discovering the mirror he didn’t bother putting any on and now he’s stood in some swampy wet grass in a pair of mismatched socks, beaming like he hadn’t noticed _._

If the strange glittering creatures didn’t kill them then surely the weather would. 

“We’re going to catch a death.” He insists, hoping that that will perhaps sway his friend more than any gift would. “Look at your hair, Vince.” 

The usually immaculate raven barnet is sagging pathetically around his shoulders. Howard rarely gets the chance to see Vince with wet hair, even when he showers it’s almost immediately subjected to all the power the Jean-Claude-Jaquettie hairdryer can manage. 

It’s a strange image to behold. Unsettling, even. 

He’s not used to this slightly more vulnerable look on his friend. It makes him appear younger. A lot like the bright eyed kid he’d known at the zoo, the one that had been hidden away under a box of black hair dye and increasingly tumultuous behaviour. 

Ignoring that rather sad thought, he gives Vince’s limp arm another desperate tug. “Come on.” 

"Hang on," Vince insists. He casts a longing look to where the beings disappeared. "We can't just leave, I said I'd give them my blessing and everything." 

"Your blessing?" Howard hisses. "Vince, I don't even get your blessing when I sneeze - what exactly do you think they'll gain from it?" 

Rather than take it as a sarcastic comment, Vince actually considers it. "I don't know. A fashion sense." He declares. "Look, it's important for me to impart my wisdom, alright?" 

"I'd be careful if I were you, you haven't got much of that as it is." 

"What's that supposed to mean." 

"Just that there aren't many geniuses out there who go around calling it the _Specific Ocean._ " Some might call it a low blow. Howard would call it fair game. Lord knows he spends enough time correcting Vince’s terminology; he was owed the right to tease him for it. 

Though having it brought up clearly does not impress Vince. "Well what does _pacific_ mean anyway? It's a pointless word!" 

"Actually it means- oh, never mind. Nothing, Vince." Howard sighs so hard he thinks he might have popped a lung. "Can we please just go?" 

“But it’s rude, Howard!” 

“Rude?” Hysterical now, another clap of that alien thunder sounds as if helping him verbalise his foul mood. “What’s rude is being dragged into an alternate dimension through a _sodding mirror_ and standing in the rain for ages while you flirt with the Cullens and talk about putting me on a leash. That’s what’s _rude,_ sir! _”_

The previously amused expression on his friend’s face hardens. “I didn’t drag you anywhere. You followed me, you berk. Like you always do. Hangin’ onto my coattails like a tiny eyed groupie.” 

There was plenty Howard had to say to that, but he didn't get the chance. By the time he’s wound himself up enough for rebuttal, because arguing with Vince often requires a mental running jump, those glittery bastards have pushed through the brush once more. The situation must read pretty well because the whole lot of them pause mid-step. All manage to perfectly emulate the awkwardness of having walked in on two people having a domestic. 

Thankfully the atmosphere around them was already distinctly chilly in the midst of this storm, otherwise it would have been positively arctic thanks to their mutually glaring at one another. 

The glittery people come to a group decision to intervene, one of them clears its throat in an attempt at a polite interruption. It works for Vince. The younger man narrows his eyes briefly ‘ _We’re not finished here’_ and then turns to their alternate dimension hosts with an apologetic smile. “Y’alright, lads?” 

“You are the one who is like us,” They say in a chilling kind of unison, eyes all glinting. Howard wishes desperately the younger man had been wearing something different. But as always, the universe aligns almost perfectly wherever Vince is concerned. “The one from elsewhere.” 

Vince just nods. So used to molding himself to the expectations of others, he slips into this role effortlessly. 

“In exchange for your favour,” The one in the front (the one that has been doing most of the talking) holds out a simple box for Vince to take. It’s shiny, like they themselves are shiny, made from what looks like polished metal. There’s not a mark on it besides the catch that keeps it closed. “Take this gift.” 

“There are things of great importance within,” Another explains, it darts suspicious glances at Howard. “It will only open for you to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands.” 

“That’s brilliant!” Vince reaches out, static crackling between the polished surface and his fingers when he makes contact. Howard frowns at the thing, but Vince seems unphased by the phenomenon, shaking it off and cradling the box as if it were something precious. “Cheers.” 

The charade concludes and they all _bow_ to him. Howard has the good sense to not roll his eyes externally lest that leash joke become involved again, but internally it happens with such force it nearly gives him a headache. 

After that there is apparently very little to be said. The pair of them are directed the short ways back to their reflective doorway. Oddly - now that they can see it without the rush of trying to keep dry skewing their perception - the mirror is nailed to a tree, surrounded by bunches of dark lilac and blood red flowers, sparklers burnt out at the base. It’s a twisted parody of a shrine. 

It makes something uncomfortable shudder down Howard’s spine. None of this is adding up to anything good.

They’re sent off silently, the catlike people alternating between small waves and respectful bows. He scrambles through first, a little afraid that he might just be left behind, and shortly after Vince hurries through. 

The jay cloth man barely gets a chance to reintroduce himself; too intent on getting home they have rushed their way through Naboo’s mirror and fallen in a heap back into the bedroom in the blink of an eye. Howard lands face first, cheek pressed into the plush rug and his breath rushing from him as he comes down from the adrenaline high. Vince manages to twist onto his back as he tumbles; sags as he hits the carpet, staring up at the ceiling in a similar startled state. 

The room around them is unchanged. It’s like they’d never been gone. 

Well, except for the small puddle they’re now leaving on the floor. 

It’s Vince who starts giggling, the whole thing no doubt endlessly amusing to him. “That was epic!” He breathes gently. The mysterious box is cradled to his chest, moving rapidly with his laughter. “It’s been _ages_ since we did something that cool.” 

Howard doesn’t answer, a bit swept up in lingering annoyance over their tiff. After a brief moment to catch his breath he forces himself into a sitting position; a bit concerned about the wet patch they’re going to leave on Naboo’s rug (he went all the way to Quebec to buy this) because he is dripping _everywhere_. 

“Howard?” 

Vince is frowning up at him; makeup running in all directions, he looks a little like a piece of art that’s been left in the rain. In some ways that’s exactly what he is. There’s a look in his eye Howard is too used to seeing lately - uncertainty. Guilt threatens to swallow him whole. “Yeah?” 

“That was fun wasn’t it?” 

As much as he wants to say _“Yes.Yes Vince, it was fun. There’s nothing like going on an adventure with you and making it out the other side to keep our friendship solid.”_ He doesn’t. 

It hadn’t been fun at all. He’s not sure which part of it he was supposed to _find_ fun, to be honest. Was it the part where the entire mission had been a means to an end for Vince? A way for him to impress a different group of friends and move himself further out of Howard’s orbit. 

Or the part where he’d been misinterpreted as a pet. Maybe the part where he’d come home _soaked_ and _uncomfortable._

He ends up not answering Vince’s question at all. “I need a shower.” Is what he sighs - because he hasn't even got the energy to snap like he wants to - ambling to his feet.

It’s doing Vince a favour that he leaves, in his mind. He’ll no doubt want to figure out how that box can get him laid - best done without Howard hovering over his shoulder. 

Before he can think better of it he has strode from the room and locked himself in their bathroom; back pressed to the wood as if he’s expecting the other to start trying to break it down after him. He has nothing to worry about on that front, not if the look Vince gave him as he left is anything to go by. 

Hurt. 

_3\. Our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up_   
_We're just a million little gods causin' rainstorms_

Howard might have his knickers in a twist over it, but Vince had genuinely had a bloody great time on their artifact seeking quest. 

It had all the makings of a story they’d be telling for years; inter-dimensional travel, aliens, presents, getting back in one piece. Howard had even seemed excited by the idea when they’d set off, despite what he said he _had_ followed Vince through the mirror. 

Definitely worth the wet hair and ruined clothes in his book. 

And if he was completely honest (which he was trying to be these days) he wasn’t all _that bothered_ about the girls he’d supposedly gone for. 

Sure, they _were_ gorgeous, and he hadn’t been lying when he said they were into the whole half alien thing. Their eyes had positively lit up when that drunken little falsehood had slipped from his lips. 

But they hadn’t actually asked him to prove it like he’d told Howard.

In fact, they’d been pretty up for it based on his word alone. After a shared look, silently communicating their mutual eagerness, he was sandwiched between them in a dark corner with one mouth nibbling at his ear while the other smeared her lipstick all over his opposite cheek - which he was a little bitter about, his makeup artistry took hours to pull off. 

The point was he could have _easily_ had it off with those girls. All he’d needed was a marginally more secluded venue and that show would have been on the road. 

Except, he couldn’t stop thinking about his boring mate at home all alone, who when he’d seen him last had been reading some boring book, and no doubt contaminating the flat with his _boring_ music.

A boring mate who was _certainly_ less fun than two girls simultaneously tugging at his clothing; but who was also the person he most wished was in his company right now. 

Once again his mouth had acted on his behalf. In a fashion much too polite for how his body was currently behaving (what do you want from him there were two pairs of hands _everywhere_ ) he made his excuses and set off for home. New intentions being to get himself and Captain Dull into some trouble. 

Good old fashioned trouble that reaffirmed their, as of late, shaky relationship. 

In some ways the plan had worked like a charm. If you ignored the part where he blatantly lied in order to get Howard involved. They had successfully gone on an adventure, albeit a rather short and sweet one compared to their usual mishaps. They’d even come back with something mysterious to remember it by. 

Howard _didn't even_ get forced into slavery or have his life threatened or anything - still seemed a bit miffed when they got back, though. 

It could have something to do with the spat that had broken out while they were out there, the logical side of Vince’s brain (yes he does have one) thought. But it hadn’t been that bad, really. Vince was so used to them always having a little back and forth when they were in the thick of it, volleying the blame between them like a pair of tennis players. 

He’d argue they’ve said worse things to each other than what passed under that storm. 

That had been when Vince realised he perhaps should have just told the truth, though. Rather than spinning an elaborate tale about Sci-Fi girls in order to spend time with his best mate, he could have just been honest. Because in hindsight, Howard hadn’t been as on board for that idea as he’d first thought. 

Come to think of it, Howard isn’t on board for many of Vince’s ideas lately. Not since that party which, despite delivering on a decades old promise for a bouncy castle, had in fact been a bit of a disaster for his mate. 

At least he had tried, though. And try he would continue to do. 

That’s why he doesn’t let it bother him too much, even if Howard had left to shower some warmth into his bones and then immediately retired to bed without saying goodnight. Because as a result of his enthusiastic attitude they (he) had a laugh and got a genius box out of it.

Always looking ahead, he was already planning their next jaunt into alternate worlds, and this time he’d ensure it was just about them. Two of them against the weird, wasn’t that how it had always been? 

Howard’s little sulk would pass quicker than it began and they’d get back to normal. 

This, of course, would be made a little easier if Howard wasn’t so apt at avoiding him _during_ the aforementioned sulking. 

They never open the shop on Sundays, which makes it prime lie in time for Vince (as if every other day isn’t also prime lie in time) and by the time he has extracted himself from his cocoon and into a shower Howard is conspicuously absent from the flat. 

Being the creature of habit that he is, Vince is almost certain that he had probably shuffled off to a jazzercise class. If not there then perhaps round to Lester’s for that weekly allotted slot of socialising they had agreed on. Since he was nothing more than a head that lived in a cupboard now, Howard would go ‘round to cheer him up with some scatting and listening to Weather Report. 

Whatever the case, it's not until hours later that Vince gets to see him again properly. 

“Alright?” Vince greets when Howard finally reappears just after 8pm.

The only response he gets is a bob of Howard’s head, busy as he is depositing his satchel over the bannister. This informs Vince that he has definitely been to Lester's, because Howard takes a gym bag to jazzercise (all the better to conceal that his workout clothes are a pair of horrifically tiny shorts and a roll neck with the sleeves cut off). The man hovers awkwardly in between the bedroom and the sofa like he’s uncertain he’s even welcome. 

Vince knows this act well; the words trying to claw their way from his friend’s socially inept person. He chooses to keep his gaze fixed firmly on the television rather than make him feel watched while he goes through the motions of his internal struggle. 

“What’s in it then?” It takes him a shamefully long moment to realise Howard is referencing the shiny box on the coffee table, during which he just frowns at his friend until it clicks. 

“Oh,” Vince twists a lock of hair in his fingers, shrugs away the lead weight in his stomach that this stilted conversation inspires. “I don’t know, I can’t open it.” 

He had in fact been trying most of the day. Every tactic he could think of from attempting to pry it open with a butter knife to actually talking to the thing; nothing had made it budge. At one point, in the height of his frustration, he’d considered dropping it from a high window just to see if it would dent. 

Instead he placed it on the coffee table in full view, dragged the throw from the back of the sofa and curled up in front of the television to catch up on entertainment news of the day. Perhaps this was a ‘wait and see’ kind of box. 

It had been staring at him ever since. 

Howard’s frown encapsulates Vince’s confusion perfectly. “But they said it would open for you.” 

“Yeah but…” He shrugs, turning back to his programme. “Can’t.” 

“Huh.” There’s optimism fluttering about in his chest; that Howard will want to sit with him, maybe even investigate the box for himself. He doesn’t. Instead, he clears his throat. “I think I’m going to turn in early.” There’s hesitation in his tone, and Vince can feel him fidgeting where he stands without having to look at him. From the corner of his eye, he sees Howard nod to himself like he’s reinforcing his choice. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Howard is gone before Vince can ask him if he’s alright. Something about him seemed twitchier than usual. More than a lingering bit of annoyance over a tiff, that’s for certain. Age old laws of their friendship state that if Howard was speaking to him relatively normally then their most recent argument was probably forgiven and forgotten. 

Yet there he'd been - Mr Fidget. Twitching the kind of twitch that was telling of something on someone's conscious. 

Like guilt. 

Vince casts a look over to the satchel hanging innocently from the bannister. 

He dismisses the idea of searching through it almost as fast as it comes. Partly because he’s worried about getting a reaction if he finds something heavily smeared in jazz; mostly because this paranoid and suspicious nature didn’t belong to him. That script was all Howard. 

History tells him that if his friend _was_ up to something then it would be revealed to him in good time (and usually good humour too). 

Maybe he was just coming down with something. 

And with that thought he hastens himself to Naboo’s room to fish out his _Peacock Dreams_ box sets. They ought to keep him plenty busy for a while. 

_4\. I'm pale as the loose-leaf paper they grow_   
_From hollowing out all my lungs in the snow_

When he finally rocks into work the following morning he is at least two hours late. 

Clunking down the stairs to find Howard leaning over the counter squinting at a clipboard is not unusual. The fact he doesn’t bother to ask him what his excuse for being late is, or look up to him at all for that matter, that _is_ unusual. 

That’s two red flags in as many days indicating that there is definitely something up with his friend. All that twitching last night may have been more than met the eye, and now he’s a bit annoyed he hadn’t investigated further when he had the chance. 

He drops off the last stair heavily; his heel connecting with the floor with a satisfying _click_. 

As it happens, that still doesn’t arouse a reaction from Howard, who has progressed from a casual lean against the counter to something that’s more reminiscent of him _holding himself up_ against the thing. He frowns at him. 

The closer he moves the deeper he frowns. Howard looks a little ashen where he stands (leans), the skin around his features tight with discomfort. And without sounding rude, those bags under his eyes were a few hours away from becoming designer. 

“You alright, Howard?” He takes care not to raise his voice above a gentle murmur and yet it still manages to startle him from his reverie and into an upright position that leaves him swaying on the spot. 

Vince’s automatic reaction is to throw both his hands up in a display of his innocuous nature. It works; Howard’s eyes narrow back to their usual size and his shoulders drop from around his ears. As soon as he has registered the lack of a threat he goes back to leaning. 

Vince is certain he saw his hand trembling as it reached for the counter top. 

After clearing his throat he responds; “I’m on top form, Vince.” 

Vince’s face actually _aches_ from how deep his brow furrows in response, it’s not really used to pulling such a solemn expression. “You sure? ‘cause you look a bit…” He gestures from his head to his feet like that explains it. 

“I’m fine.” Howard reiterates. “I just didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all.” 

Catching his lower lip between his teeth, he casts his eyes to his feet. Naboo’s box sets had done a more than adequate job of keeping him busy. Good enough that he didn’t stumble to bed until the early hours of the morning. 

Still, taking a dig at him about it is unnecessary. 

He does nothing to keep his petulance from his tone. “I didn’t think I was that loud.” 

“Oh, Oh no- You weren’t.” The other man sighs fondly, as if it was frankly ridiculous for him to have even suggested it. This at least confirms that whatever funky mood Howard had been in with him yesterday had passed. There’s sincerity in his gaze as he reassures him, “I was just restless. Most likely still full of energy from my jazzercise.” 

And all that positive atmosphere that had been slowly building bursts like a soap bubble; at least it does on Vince’s side of things. Howard’s satchel, innocent in its outward appearance, comes screaming into the forefront of his mind like it had last night. 

_Howard never takes_ just _a satchel to Jazzercise._

He should have snooped when he had the chance. Bloody idiot that he was. 

“Well, maybe you should go back to bed.” Vince suggests. If Howard notices the slightly hardened edge to his voice he doesn’t react. “You do look a bit run down.” 

“I’m fine.” 

Scoffing, he shakes his head. “Howard you’ll scare off any customers looking like you do.” Except that just makes Howard frown. Vince hastens to add, “I’m just saying. All sickly like that, people might think you’re contagious.” 

On Top of the frowning, there is now a glare. “I’m not sick. Howard Moon doesn’t get sick.” 

“Everyone gets sick, Howard.” 

“I haven’t been sick in years!” Howard, typically hysterical, exclaims. “I’ve never taken a sick day in my life.” 

That is a fact that Vince himself can attest to. He’s been living and working with Howard since they were old enough to do so (mostly) legally and there wasn’t a day that the other man wouldn’t show up at the zoo. Even after being dealt a terrific mauling from the Kangaroo Howard had insisted on being patched up enough to return to work the following day. 

At the time, Vince assumed it had a lot to do with showing off his war wounds (not that anyone remembered the fight happening - all the employees had pretty short memories when it came to Howard), but as time went on it became clear that Howard was simply the kind of man who took a twisted pleasure in never having a sick day regardless of whether he ran himself into the ground while doing it. It was a pride thing, he thinks. 

But he really doesn’t look great. 

Those grim reapers they’d met had more life in them than Howard appears to at the moment. 

Whether Vince is presently suspicious of him is pushed to the bottom of his priorities list; investigating his potential misdemeanors can at least wait until Howard is well enough to defend himself. In the immediate instance his first concern was acting as the sane one (hilarious, he knows) and putting his friend back to bed by whatever means. 

He doesn’t even think before he reaches out with his palm splayed, intending to crudely assess Howard’s temperature in the absence of an actual thermometer, but Howard flinches away. “Don’t touch me!” 

“Fine!” Snaps from him like a whip crack. He’s getting wound up with each good natured gesture that is shrugged off, thinks he might be bordering on some drastic behaviour as a result - he’s due a tantrum. It’s been ages. 

Since before Denmark ages. 

And Vince’s tantrums were a sight to behold when they really got going. They both had their moments, that was true, but as you would expect Vince was slightly more prone to diva behaviour. 

He wouldn’t go as far as to say one of them was more emotional than the other. No, both men were equally liable to a good old meltdown; it just manifested differently. 

Howard handled everything internally. Didn’t matter what it was. Sure he’d verbally berate Vince, even go as far as to argue with him on occasion but that’s as far as it would go. The real visceral reactions were almost always turned on himself regardless of where it _deserved_ to be directed.

Howard's tantrums are like imploding stars. They’re a quiet affair, often in a localised area and with little evidence of it actually occurring in the environment around him. A rare thing for anyone to witness at all. It happens because he succumbs to his own pressure, this unrealistic notion he’s been carrying with him since Vince has known him - that in _some way_ all his misgivings can be traced back to himself; and he just… folds in on himself. 

In some ways it’s kind of tragically beautiful. 

Tragic because inevitably Vince will find himself dabbing anti-inflammatory cream on the parts of Howard that have been subject to his frustration and convincing him to _“Cheer up, Howard, things will sort themselves out.”_ But beautiful in the way that seeing any expression of such deep emotion can be quite moving in a certain light. 

Not like Vince. Not at all like Vince. 

Vince was a hurricane when he lost it. Explosive. Loud. Destructive. He channels everything into an outward display of what he’s feeling through smashed mugs and screeched expletives, slammed doors and name calling. But it passes almost as soon as it has brewed and what’s left in its wake is a clean up effort fueled by shame. Howard was always there after; a relief worker scrambling through the rubble of Vince in the hopes of putting it all back together again. 

Ironic given that these days it was Howard himself that seemed to trigger his outbursts more often than not. 

He’s certainly being handed enough ammo this morning. What’s the point of trying to _not_ be a self involved prat if other people don’t want you to be involved with them in the first place? And why did it feel like he was the only one _trying_ anymore. 

A frenzied thought crosses his mind that he could try to _physically_ put Howard to bed if he wouldn’t go willingly. But Howard is stubborn as an ox (and built like one too in comparison to Vince’s slight frame) so that idea is vetoed pretty quickly. 

Instead he resolves to remove himself from the situation. 

As cathartic as releasing his temper out into the world would be it wasn’t likely to help much in the long run. Especially when, as he had helpfully pointed out to himself earlier, Howard was in no fit state to properly engage with a Noir level outburst. 

“Suit yourself.” He sighs deeply, and the way Howard’s lip twitches down tells him he conveyed his annoyance perfectly. Then, he leaves him to it. Snatches a magazine from his stash behind the counter and retreats to his favourite chair by the window to patiently wait this out. 

Vince gives him two hours before he cracks. 

As it happens two hours was an incredibly generous bet on Vince’s behalf. 

He makes it through one article about the various applications of a bandanna before his annoyance has burnt itself out completely, replaced instead with the lukewarm trickle of concern for his friend. Who, in the absence of Vince’s hovering, has gone back to attempting to take inventory. Attempting being the operative word; he looks more like he’s bracing himself for a smack the way his face is scrunched and his muscles are tense. 

The clock ticks over to half an hour since he had strut off in a huff and Vince has completely abandoned his reading at this point; favouring Howard-watching instead. The man so preoccupied keeping himself upright he is oblivious to the scrutiny. 

Forty minutes and he’s decided that Howard Moon is the bane of his own existence and he will be looked after whether he likes it or not.

From where he’s sitting he can see the kind of effort it’s taking Howard to do the smallest of things. He flips the sheet he’s looking at with a trembling hand and even that looks like it takes everything he’s got to pull it off. If he looked washed out before he was positively pallid now. Vince is honestly surprised he can’t see right through him. His efforts at reading don’t seem to be doing him any good either; his tiny brown eyes are unfocused and pinched in pain.

It’s that which motivates him into action. Howard’s eyes are a little squinty, but there’s always been a warmth to them that Vince has found hopelessly appealing. Not right now though, now they’re a bit empty and ridden with hurt. 

Howard won’t do it himself, he’s too proud, so Vince sighs heavily and heads for the stairs. It earns him a bit of a frown from Howard but not much else. 

The first thing he does when he gets into the flat is put the kettle on. Nothing can perk someone up like a good cuppa in his opinion. While that boils, he fishes through their cabinets to find some medicine. It takes a bit of time, for as much Howard likes to keep things in order even he doesn't try to organise their kitchen cupboards. There is no logic to the way things are shoved into whatever space will hold them. Pots and pans and cauldrons and the occasional bong interspersed with completely random items like bolt cutters, glue guns, paint stained rags, and even a shovel. 

Eventually he comes across his target, a Tupperware box filled with various forms of over the counter medication. Helpfully, he pops two paracetamol from their blister pack and continues the monotonous motions of making Howard’s tea (just a splash of milk and one sugar) and then shuffles back down to the shop and presents it all to his friend with a small shy smile. 

Howard looks up at him, equally timid, and reaches out to take the cup. “Thank you.” 

“These too,” Vince insists, handing him the pills. 

Thankfully whatever fight was in him earlier has dwindled because he takes them without argument and swallows them down. Vince hovers at his shoulder once again, waits until he’s taken at least three sips of tea and starts to look a little more like a human being than a vague imitation of one.

“Go to bed, Howard.” He says, this time not a suggestion. 

Howard sighs, looking at the floor like a scolded child. “I’m not sick.” He insists again, but before Vince can argue with him he cuts in. “But I have got a blinder, so if you can manage for half an hour I’ll go and sit down.” 

Mostly just baffled that Howard was willing to compromise in such a way, he nods his head. “Yeah. Course I can manage.” 

“Okay then.” And then the other man is dragging himself off towards the stairs. He stops just before he heads up though, nodding at the stockroom. “Oh, and you might want to put back that jewelry you pilfered before Naboo finds out.” And then he’s gone. 

Vince stares after him for a moment, confused. He hadn’t taken any jewelry from the shop. Not recently anyway - Vince _did_ have a tendency to take items from their stock out for a spin on occasion. Clothes, accessories, and once a genius pair of boots. But he always returned it within a day or two to avoid Naboo catching on. 

He certainly hadn’t taken anything this time, though. 

Maybe Howard had just gone a bit wrong with his sickness and was remembering incorrectly. He shrugs it off, making himself comfortable with his magazine once again and settles in for a day watching the shop. 

_5\. 'Cause I have no right to love you_   
_When I chose to walk away_

Howard fully intends to just take a little break, drink his tea and then get straight back to work. 

Because he isn’t sick. 

He _does_ feel a bit terrible, all things considered. His throat _is_ scratchy. And he’s got a blinder the likes of which he usually only experiences the morning after a few too many whiskeys… And his joints _are_ aching. All of that could be explained away, though. That jaunt into the glitterworld had been taxing on the pair of them. Even his Sunday, while not particularly physical, had certainly been on the emotional side of draining. 

When he’d woken up (hours before Vince as is usual of them) Sunday morning, his irritation from the previous night hadn’t diffused as much as he hoped it would have. 

Typically any disagreement between the pair of them was quickly solved by sleeping it off. That or they’d get into some sort of danger that meant being mad at one another was simply not as important as getting out alive. 

Yet, there was a lingering sting to the events of the previous day. 

Even that would be fine, he supposed, if he could just figure out _why_ he was so upset in the first place. The annoying truth of it was that he just _didn’t know_. It was an inky black coil of negativity making itself at home in his chest cavity and he simply didn’t have the motivation to dissect it. 

The only thing to do was to carry on as normal. 

So he’d hauled himself from his sheets, made the bed to military precision and got himself dressed - all while his friend slept soundly in his own bed on the other side of the room. Vince slept a bit like a gunshot victim; limbs splayed in all directions. His sheets lay tangled up in his legs, no doubt a result of his thrashing about in reaction to his vivid dreams.

The metal box was resting on his bedside table, reflecting the early morning sun. 

Howard briefly considered investigating it, but it vaguely felt like he'd be cheating on his friend. It’s Vince’s box, after all. They will probably investigate it together. Later, once he’s awake. 

Until then there is plenty he can do to keep himself occupied. A jazzercise class for a start, and then swing by Lester's on the way home to make sure he can reach his food bowl. Vince tends to emerge at around noon, chances are he would not only be awake by the time Howard returned, but also sociable.

Unfortunately, things didn’t go like that. 

The executive decision was made to skip jazzercise, on account of the fact he didn’t have the kind of energy required to fully commit to a bebop workout. He’s feeling inexplicably run down. Instead he heads from the flat after his lunch and decides that a slow stroll to Lester's will make ample replacement for the exercise. His satchel is full of records and a Tupperware of homemade stew. 

Vince had snorted when he’d made it the other day, “Can he even eat anymore?” He’d wrinkled his nose in disgust. “He’s just a head, where does it go?” 

“I think he just enjoys the taste, to be honest.” Howard had confessed. 

A typical visit with Lester lasted only a few hours, after which Howard would make a polite excuse to head home. It just so happened that this excuse usually centred around Vince. _I best go put the dinner on for Vince_ or _I promised Vince I’d take him to the park to feed the ducks, so, I should be off._

This time, though, Howard had found himself being kicked out. 

Well, kicked out is harsh, more like Lester verbally berates him for staying so long - in the politest way possible. 

“Oh boy, Howard!” The head cries. “It’s nearly six, you best be scootin’.” 

As well as wondering how on earth a blind head is aware of the exact time, Howard found himself confused at this dismissal. “Sorry?” 

“The time!” Lester chuckled. “You wouldn’t want to miss your date night, would you?” 

Howard managed to choke on the air he was breathing. “My what?” 

“Date night. Mclovin’ time. Snuggle hour.” Lester elaborated. “You always have some romantic rendezvous with that scrumptious little lady of yours on a Sunday.” 

He managed to stop choking, but still had no hope of regaining his breath. “You mean Vince?” He rasped. 

“That’s the one.” 

Howard didn’t really have the energy to argue that he _doesn’t have date nights with Vince_. To be honest, it’s never worth his energy. Since fairly early in their friendship, the pair of them had come to the realisation that people were often going to refer to them as romantically involved (And Vince as the feminine half of that equation) and that to put effort into arguing it would be like trying to swim in custard. Best to just let people get on with it. 

Besides, it’s not like it affected them in any way, they always knew where they stood with one another without the opinions of the general population getting involved. Didn’t they?

No that wasn’t the sticking point for him. What did make his throat tight was the fact that he hadn’t even _thought_ to excuse himself yet. Normally he’d have been on his way home with genuine intentions of spending time with his best friend. 

That inky black snake gives his lungs an insistent squeeze.

“Well, uh,” He cleared his throat. “We’ve no plans tonight, Lester, so,” 

“Oh.” Lester frowned at him. If he was capable of it, Howard had no doubt he would be patting his shoulder in an act of comfort. “You two having a fight, huh?” 

And because Howard has very few other friends to talk to about such matters he found himself saying, “I think we are, yeah.” 

The head’s clear disappointment was demonstrated in a tut. “What did you do this time?” 

“Why do you think it’s my fault?” As soon as the question was out there he’d known it was a stupid one. Of the two of them, Howard would of course be the one to ruin a relationship. He _was_ the one to ruin it. 

“I feel like I’m getting left behind,” The admission had sprung from him unwittingly; the real reason for his black mood falling out of his mouth shortly thereafter. “And even if I am I wouldn’t blame him for doing it, not after what I did.” 

Running off to Denmark had seemed like fair game at the time, what with Vince wedging himself into any band he could get within five feet of - whether he actually liked their music or not. It wasn’t until he’d gotten out there he realised what a mistake that had been. 

Vince might have had other bands, but he’d never gone anywhere. Not really. No matter what he was always there to make music with Howard. 

“I just don’t know how to keep his attention anymore,” He sighed eventually. “I’m not as interesting as the rest of them and for some daft reason I keep punishing _him_ for it.” Even he frowned at himself for that. “By accident. Mainly. Sometimes he deserves it.” He was getting off track. “Last night he was trying to do something nice and I behaved like a tit.” 

Whatever creature was encircled around his insides gives a fierce hiss as if pleased by this hurtful honesty.

Vince wanting to have other friends didn’t bother him as much as the fact he wasn’t good enough for him to hang around with in the first place. 

“Hm. Well, if I were you,” Lester smirks at him knowingly. “I’d start by buying something pretty and saying sorry. You know, people like it when you talk to ‘em about the things that are bothering you.” 

It was pretty sound advice considering it had been Lester to deliver it. Until he chuckled shamelessly and added, “And if that doesn’t work, there ain’t no disagreement that some good old hanky panky can’t fix.” 

Howard did manage an amused huff at that sentiment, thankful his friend is blind and couldn't see the way his face flushed in response. 

Following that he hadn’t stayed much longer. He’d set off with a plan of action and gone straight to the nearest high street. For once taking his friend's advice had genuinely sounded like the best option - luckily, shopping for Vince is perhaps one of the easiest feats known to man. There’s very little he doesn’t enjoy, and he _loves_ presents. 

It remained, though, that Howard Moon doesn’t always maintain the bravery he boasts about.

By the time he had gotten back to the flat he found Vince in his loose pyjama bottoms (ones that had once belonged to Howard before a zoo era Vince had poached them and altered their fit) and a comfy t-shirt, curled on the sofa watching the television, he discovered he hadn’t a single clue how to begin to have that conversation. 

So he’d panicked and sent himself to bed early. 

And now… now he was on his way to being sick. Which does sort of put a damper on his intentions. 

He’d barely slept the previous night because he was so preoccupied thinking about the little wrapped box hidden in his satchel and how he should have brought it with him, because Vince has no concern for personal boundaries at the best of times. He would have no hesitations about going into the bag if he found a good enough reason. 

The restlessness had only been a gateway to more symptoms. Any time he managed to drift off his slumber was inevitably broken with a stabbing pain behind his eyes and a churning in his stomach. 

That didn’t stop him adamantly insisting he was okay to Vince’s face, though. Perhaps if he just doesn’t give in to the illness then it will pass within a few hours and save his incredibly delicate pride from having to admit the younger man was right. 

But when he plonks himself onto the sofa he does admit that it feels good to take the weight off of his feet. It’s okay to let himself feel that for a bit, isn’t it? 

Scooping up one of his jazz magazines, he wriggles down into the soft material of their sofa to drink his tea and savour his break. Ten minutes, he thinks. Ten minutes before he makes sure Vince doesn’t burn the shop down. 

It's not his fault if he gets a bit drowsy. 

_6\. Yesterday you'd forgiven me  
_ _And now I sit back and wait till you say you're sorry_

Vince is terrible at stocktaking, but he reckons he should probably make a vague attempt at doing some work while the responsible half of their duo was out of sorts. It feels like the kind of thing that Howard would _want_ him to do, which is enough motivation for him. 

So he tries. Spends a shockingly long time trying to make sense of the cryptic scribblings that Howard calls handwriting. After that it's just a case of counting what he can find (as best as he can - counting wasn't his strong suit either). It works great for a time. He must spend up to an hour in that stuffy little cupboard making note of potions and trinkets until his eyes start to ache from squinting down at Howard's clipboard. It's when he pauses for a break that he realises his numbers must be way off. By his count they’re missing a bunch of stuff. Really random stuff, at that. 

Jewelry, like Howard had mentioned earlier, was in fact gone by his assessment; since he couldn’t find it and he knew _he_ hadn’t taken it. Not only that, according to his sheet, there were a fair few items that Howard had contributed to their stock now suspiciously absent; collectors coins, a vintage pocket watch of some description, and a couple of those dull jazz themed pencil cases. And there was definitely no way he’d taken any of that. 

Weird, this is true, but in the big picture? It was all pretty small stuff (none of it the kind of casually dangerous artifacts Naboo has a habit of leaving back here) and therefore not his problem. He was like the front man of the shop, his job was to sell not to count. Counting was Howard’s concern, Vince's concern right now was Howard. 

So he forgets it. They haven’t had a customer all day and while Naboo is away and Howard predisposed he has enough authority to shut the shop a few hours earlier than usual for the sole purpose of checking on his friend. He was Naboo’s favourite anyway, nothing bad could possibly come from this. 

He finds Howard propped on the sofa, his neck at an awkward angle, snoring softly. In his lap the latest copy of _Jazz Hot_ was open and on the cushion beside him a thankfully empty mug had upended itself. None of this comes as a surprise to him, considering the man had gone for a sit down over three hours ago and not returned. 

The sight still makes him smile, though. Howard always looks softer in his sleep. He spends so much of his waking hours ruffled by the world that it’s pleasing to see him so… untouched. Like a blank canvas just waiting to be impressed upon. It’s the most serene Vince has seen him in an age. 

He wishes he knew how to make him look like that everyday. 

While he has the chance, Vince rests a barely there hand to the other man’s forehead and gnaws on his lip; he feels warm but it's impossible to tell exactly how warm with just touch alone. 

Frowning, he gently shakes at Howard’s shoulder. 

The man gurgles awake, squinty eyes managing to squint even smaller and dart around in the panicked fashion of someone startled. He was making a habit of doing that to him, he thinks. When they finally come to rest on Vince he sags visibly, relieved. 

Vince smirks down at him. “Sleep well?” 

“What time is it?” Howard grunts, using the heel of his hand to scrub at his eyes. 

“Four.” 

That seems to frighten Howard more than waking him did, he gapes at him in disbelief and starts sputtering around his excuses with a painfully hoarse voice. “I didn’t realise- I just sat for a moment!” 

“Howard, Howard,” Vince chuckles, pressing the man back into the sofa when he attempts to wobble to his feet. “It’s fine.” 

“The shop-” 

“Is closed.” Howard hasn’t insisted that Vince stop touching him yet, but he still doesn't move in case he draws attention to the contact. He’s left just sort of holding his shoulders in a soft grip. “Look, Howard, I know you’ve got it in your head that your fine but I really think you should go to bed-” 

“Yeah, I think you’re right.” 

The rest of the speech that Vince had planned is promptly cut off. “Wha'?” 

Howard looks at his own feet, his face a crude mixture of reluctance and shame. “I think you’re right.” And Vince only gets a few seconds to bask in the glory of that before Howard adds, “For once.” 

He doesn’t even have it in him to argue. Because Howard’s looking a bit like that time he died and came back to visit him. Ghostly. Gaunt. Hollow. Even the nap hasn't helped his headache; Vince can still see where his face pulls taught in discomfort. Rather than keep the banter going he stands straight, breaking their contact, and nods his head towards their room. “Come on then.” 

Howard seems horrified by this suggestion. “I can get to bed on my own, Vince.” 

It takes everything in his power not to roll his eyes at this statement. Sometimes it’s best to let Howard learn on his own. “If you say so.” 

They stand in a stalemate. Vince with his arms folded across his chest and staring down at Howard, an eyebrow quirked in expectation. Howard glares defiantly upwards. 

But nothing happens. 

Eventually Vince is forced to give up, knowing Howard can be fiercely protective of his pride and unlikely to budge on the matter without first _trying_ to be self-sufficient. He takes a few steps back and turns to the mirror on the far wall, spends a moment combing his fingers through his hair and correcting his jaunty fringe. 

It gives Howard sense enough of privacy for his wounded ego and at the same time allows Vince to watch him carefully in the reflection. 

It’s a good thing too because when the man staggers to his feet he sways dangerously before Vince rushes to his side and steadies him. He clutches at his arm, one hand cupping his elbow and props him upright. “You alright?” He asks, not bothering to disguise his concern. 

“Fine.” Howard attempts to snap the word but it comes out broken and rough. “Just a little bit dizzy. No need to worry yourself.” 

Vince scoffs and Howard flinches at the sound. This close he can feel how Howard’s frame is vibrating with gentle trembling, can feel how he’s swaying despite the hold Vince has on his arm. His eyes squint against the light of the room and cast downwards like it hurts to have them open at all. 

“No need to worry?” He asks, incredulous. “Howard, any good undertaker would bury you right now.” 

“Don’t be dramatic.” 

“Dramatic?” This time Vince’s scoff goes up in pitch thanks to his sheer disbelief of Howard’s stubbornness. But he also knows that they had a habit of getting sidetracked from important things with their squabbling. For once he has to rise above it. “I’ll show you dramatic. Bed. Now.” 

With that he gives enough of a tug on Howard’s arm that the man starts to stumble forward one step at a time. Vince shoulders more of Howard’s weight than he first intends to, but he’s fairly sure the older man isn’t even aware how heavily he’s leaning on him. 

“Still dizzy?” Vince asks when they reach their bedroom. 

Howard doesn’t even vocalise an answer this time. He just makes an affirmative humming sound. Vince swallows down his concern for the moment. 

Gently, very gently, he deposits the older man on his bed. He still has his eyes shut, taking slow deep breaths like he’s trying to hold the pieces of himself together through sheer willpower alone. The trembling hasn’t stopped either, despite there now being a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

He looks like shit. 

“Are you gonna be sick?” Vince asks, torn between backing out of the splash zone and a stepping forward to help him to the bathroom. 

“Don’t think so.” He replies, unconvincingly. But he at least opens his eyes. Looking up at Vince he seems to be less unsteady now that he’s sitting down again. “Think I just need to sleep it off is all.” 

Vince’s instincts very rarely steer him wrong and he is already certain that this will not be cured by simply sleeping it off. Mentally he starts writing a list of things he’s going to have to get prepared for the next few days if - _when_ \- this becomes a fully fledged illness. 

“Right.” He agrees. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” 

And he does try to leave; he only gets as far as the door, though. A quick glance back over his shoulder finds Howard helplessly picking at his own clothing. His limbs aren’t on his side it seems. As much as he tries to pull his hideously beige roll neck over his head he isn’t having much luck, wincing with every shift of his uncooperative extremities. 

Vince sighs heavily. His eyes cast heavenward, silently begging for strength, and then he finds his feet carrying him back to Howard's bed. He doesn’t ask if Howard wants help, because it will probably start another back and forth that he just isn’t awake enough for right now. 

Howard stares up at him, the question clear in his gaze. Slowly, so what he’s doing can’t be misinterpreted, he reaches out with steady fingers and plucks at the material of his jumper. 

To his complete and utter surprise; Howard lets him. 

Like wet noodles, Howard's weak arms raise so that Vince can get the garment over them. Once it’s off he even goes as far to start folding it as neatly as he can manage and moves to set it on top of his dresser where Howard can take care of it later. The entire time his friend watches him with a mish mash of emotions; eyes attentive and curious, mouth twisted in what appears as concealed amusement. Cheeks flushed, though that could just be the temperature he was no doubt harbouring. 

When he is back by his side he hovers, looks Howard head to toe and then throws his dignity to the wind and dips to untie his shoes. It’s an interesting reversal of their positions just a few nights ago, and he wonders if the thought crosses Howard’s mind too. 

If it does, he still doesn’t say anything. Vince thinks he might just be too embarrassed to bother - or he’s asleep sitting up. 

Shoes out of the way, tucked into the special little shoe rack that Howard has in the bottom of his wardrobe. Vince pauses again. “Think you can manage your own trousers?” He asks with a playful smirk. 

It’s worth it for the way Howard’s eyes dart to him in panic. He thinks if he wasn’t so sick he might even have told the younger man off but right now it looks like even the will to scold has left his friends body. 

“I’m kidding.” He amends easily, this time heads for the bedroom door with purpose. “Okay. I’m going, you lie down.” 

“Thank you, Vince.” Howard rumbles, the sincerity in his tone enough to make Vince bite his lip to contain his grin. 

“S’alright.” He mutters. Implying it is nothing at all, because Howard likes to pretend he doesn’t have to rely on other people. The more Vince can play into that delusion the more chance he will have to actually look after him without resistance. “Lie down.” 

He does go this time, tugging the bedroom door closed as gently as he can manage and heads straight to the hall cupboard. It’s where they keep some of their more mainstream cleaning supplies, i.e. the ones that weren’t brought here by their non-human landlord.

Howard likes to profess that Vince doesn’t know the location of this cupboard, given that the closest he gets to cleaning anything is polishing his jewelry. 

The first thing he digs out is an empty bucket. He hooks the handle over his arm like a strange handbag and carries it around; begins filling it with things he has a feeling he might need. A few bags of Howard’s favourite crisps, a packet of plain digestive biscuits, a box of crackers, some flannels, the blister pack of painkillers he’d dug out earlier. He even risks breaking out in hives by grabbing his friend’s discarded Jazz reading material and tucks that in there, just in case he wakes up bored. 

Content with his gathering, he fills a glass and a bowl with water respectively and then directs himself back to the bedroom. 

By the time he returns Howard is under the covers, flat on his back, snoring. 

Vince smirks to himself. He deposits the bucket by the side of the bed and his other items on the nightstand. While he has a moment to do so, he once again takes a estimation of his friend’s temperature using his palm - makes a mental note to search the flat for a thermometer next - and frowns to himself upon realising that Howard is steadily getting warmer. 

It isn’t anything to get too worried about yet, he reminds himself, as long as he keeps an eye on him. Which, in his new role as nurse, Vince is more than happy to do. 

Shouldn’t be too hard to keep one man alive, should it? 

_7\. In the morning, you know you won't remember a thing  
_ _In the morning, you know it's gonna be alright_

Vince might have made a good nurse in another life if he hadn’t been guilty of an over-worrying problem. 

At first it seems like the simplest thing in the world to leave Howard to it, let him sleep this thing off. He manages to watch two old episodes of _Colobos The Crab_ with no incident. But by the time the title sequence of a third episode is playing, the passive nature of watching telly starts to grind on him. It feels like he’s trying too hard to _not do_ _anything,_ which in itself is such anti-Vince behaviour - he is basically made of sound and motion. He chatters and hums and taps his feet. 

Not right now, he doesn’t, right now he’s almost constricting himself to stillness like it’s the proper thing to be doing. 

So he counteracts that and finds something more active to do. 

This translates as pushing his way into Naboo’s room and clearing up the mess they had left behind a few nights ago, thus hopefully preventing him from finding out they’d been into his stuff in the first place. 

He puts lids back on boxes and replaces books onto shelves; he avoids examining any glass bottles he scoops up too closely because he’s certain some of them have things that are _alive_ inside them. 

The wet patch they had left behind on the rug has dried out perfectly well by itself, but there’s an assortment of clothes Vince had shed and abandoned still scattered about. While Howard had made claim on the shower, he had favoured a more immediate solution of undressing from his wet things and covering himself in a blanket until he could make use of the bathroom for himself. 

They all get collected, one by one, with a wrinkle of his nose. He’s starting to understand why Howard was always on about cleaning up after him, because he found it wasn’t the most fun of activities to be a part of. But someone has to do it, he supposes. One sock, then the other, his headband looped around his wrist then his trousers and blouse. 

He’s collecting his accessories (a pile of bangles and a ring) when he notices it. Or rather, doesn’t notice it. His pendant is missing, the one he’d been wearing that night. At first he searches the surrounding area in case it had been dropped further from his other garments - under the bed, inside the crumpled bits of wet fabric he’s holding lest it got tangled, even flips the rug up to search underneath it. 

Then he assumes he perhaps hadn’t taken it off here like he remembers, and after depositing his dirty clothes outside their bedroom door he moves his searching into their bathroom. There’s no luck there, either. Which is odd. 

Vince doesn’t misplace his accessories. 

This new mystery engulfs him for far longer than he had initially planned, and leads to him practically turning the entire flat upside down. He raids the kitchen cabinets once more, gets to his hands and knees and peeks under the fridge. Then the living room; tucks his hands between the sofa cushions, moves all of the magazines and the metal box around on the coffee table in case it has gotten lost between the miscellaneous items. Still nothing. 

On the upside, during his search he did come across a sort of medical bag he remembers Howard cobbling together in the zoo and subsequently keeping when they moved. Full to the brim as it was with plasters, creams, ointments, bandages - an imaginative range of medical supplies, he’s sure - it usually came in handy. Cuts and scrapes were bound to happen when you were typically a magnet for trouble. Or if you were just as accident prone as Howard was. 

By the time he gives up the entire place looks a mess and his overwhelming urge to check on his friend has returned. Realistically it has been no longer than two hours. Not that long at all in hindsight; sick people surely need more sleep than that to get over an illness. Still, it’s enough time that he feels comfortable sticking his head through the door. 

Howard’s curled on his side. Soft breaths puffing between his parted lips as he sleeps on. His duvet is pulled tight around him despite the fact he has sweat soaking through his vest and dampening his forehead. 

The sight of it makes Vince’s stomach twist uncomfortably. He slips into the room soundlessly. With his trusty med kit by his side he hoists himself onto the bed beside the sleeping man; settles comfortably on his knees. The trembling is worse now, Howard shaking against the bed as Vince gently peels the covers away. 

The first thing he does is attempt to wake him up, conscious that he just wants to make sure he _can_ still wake him up. 

In some way it works. Howard grumbles at him, slurred nonsense words, but it is not the full consciousness that he had hoped for. It's the kind of half awake yet still asleep state Vince has grown used to while conducting his midnight barbering sessions. They’ve sometimes managed to have whole conversations while Howard is like this - conversations he’s never remembered after the fact. 

“Howard?” He whispers; giving the man’s shoulder a slightly rougher shake.

The only response he gets, though, is a whined, “Not the nutmeg.” 

It’s amusing enough to make him smile, and at least confirms he isn’t dead. Reassurance enough for him to get on with some care while Howard is passed out and unable to fight him on it. 

He starts with another hand on the forehead, and this time it really makes him frown. He wasn’t sure anyone could have gotten any hotter than he was before but Howard, as if trying to prove a point even while unconscious, has managed it. Naturally, he decides to confirm his suspicions by grabbing the thermometer from his bag and pressing it into Howard’s ear. 

Waiting for the beep to signify it’s duty was done feels like an age, and he studies the way that Howard’s face continues to twist in discomfort even while he is sleeping. His eyelids are fluttering sporadically and Vince wonders if he is dreaming behind those eyes. 

The thing beeps, Vince looks down at the declared number of 38.4 degrees Celsius. 

Vince repeats the number to himself a few times. It feels like a condemnation the more he says it, like it should have some serious meaning. “No hospital yet.” He decides, but that doesn’t really give him much comfort. “But I’m going to have to keep an eye on you.” 

Talking to Howard helps, even when the man probably isn’t conscious enough to understand him or respond with any kind of sense. In fact, he does get some response, but it’s a garbled noise that sounds like ‘mice’. 

“Mice?” Vince asks, dutifully recapping the thermometer and tucking it back into Howard's all purpose medical bag. Reaching for the bowl of water he had acquired earlier he sets about soaking a flannel in the cool liquid while he half listens to Howard’s responses. 

“In the walls.” He hums. His eyelids still flutter with his unconscious imaginings and Vince smiles gently down at him. “Scratchin’. Singin’.” 

Despite his words being a little slurred, Vince understands him perfectly. “What are they singing, Howard?” He dabs now damp cloth on his forehead, hoping it will soothe his flushed and sweaty skin. 

“Punk noise.” 

Vince does snort a laugh at that, Howard wasn’t fully _compos mentis_ and yet he still managed to sound disgusted as he grunted the words. He can’t help himself but to hope the mice in Howard’s dreams are singing in Vince’s voice. 

Sweaty curls are brushed away with utmost care so he can keep up his attempt at a bed-bath, and Howard shifts in response. Vince expects him to flinch away from the contact, instead the man rolls onto his side and unwittingly curls himself around where Vince sits on his bed. His movements stutter in response.

A fresh sensation pools in the pit of his stomach - affection, the kind of which he’d buried many _many_ years ago - providing him with a welcome respite from all the worrying he’d been doing. For just a moment, he allows himself to bask in the feeling. Not for too long though, he has a sort of duty for Howard’s care right now, and discards the flannel long enough to maneuver him away. 

He grumbles his distaste at the movement. At least, he grumbles right up until Vince positions himself close enough that his thigh presses to Howard’s hip. The contact appears to help, he quietens once more, still on his side with his face pressed into the pillow. 

“Should pass soon.” Vince promises, resuming his amateur attempt at cooling Howard down with his wet cloth. This time he dabs at Howard’s cheeks and then his collarbones and shoulders, any skin that's exposed. He won’t go as far as stripping Howard, that seems a bit pervy, but the cool water on his humid skin does make him sigh in relief. “At least I hope so. Otherwise we’re gonna have to cart you to a hospital and we all know how much you hate them.” 

“Like jazz.” 

Again, Vince chuckles. “No, Howard, you actually like jazz. Though god only knows why.” 

To which Howard announces (mutters), “I like Vince.” 

“Yeah, Vince likes you too.” He adds, voice low, lips quirking as he does so. 

Howard mumbles something into the pillow, pressing his face into it as he is. Vince finds himself curious enough to ask, “What was that, Howard?” 

“Vince better than jazz.” It was still uttered into a pillow; but somehow this time it was like he had screamed it at him. “My little man.” 

Vince’s flannel pauses it’s movement, rests damply at the hollow of Howard’s throat. Howard’s conversation was always like this when he wasn’t wholly present. Disjointed and cryptic, and yet painfully _honest._

“Need to tell him,” His nose scrunches, a frown forming beneath his mustache.

“Tell him what?” 

It takes him long enough to reply that Vince’s curious nature almost has him shaking the man by the shoulders to demand he stay awake and answer him. Then he croaks, “All of it.” A deep sigh. “Miss him. ‘Ve got to stop him leaving.” 

And if that wasn’t confusing enough, Howard promptly declares. “He means too much.” 

His brain might just short circuit a little bit. In that, his brain only really works at the capacity of a calculator most of the time (not even one of the scientific ones, just a bog standard calculator, from the 80s, with it’s batteries running low) and if you put too many numbers in it sort of just blinks into standby. And whatever Howard just said feels like a pretty complicated calculation. 

So he takes a solid minute to tamper down that feeling of misguided hope for a second time. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks instead of trying to respond in any coherent way. 

There’s an attempt at a shrug but Howard is loose limbed enough that he just sort of flails. Then there’s silence, extended over enough of a period of time that Vince assumes he has perhaps drifted back to sleep. 

So he starts to clean (He’s making a habit out of that) the area around them. 

He slides himself off the bed as quietly as he can manage and tucks the medical bag away under the bed for easy access again later. He reaches for the bowl with the intention of taking it and refilling when a violent bout of shivering wracks Howard’s lanky body. 

When he reaches for his duvet again Vince has to step over and move it out of reach, knowing he will only overheat himself if he wraps up too much. 

This displeases Howard greatly. “Cold.” He _whines._

That sympathetic feeling is back again, icing his insides like a December frost. “You’re not cold, I promise.” He had no doubt that the fever was convincing his body (quite well) that he was chilly, but despite his shivering Vince knew better. “I _promise_.” 

He remembered getting sick once years ago, fever taking him on the worn leather sofa of the keepers hut and Howard in his place making sure he didn’t get vomit in his hair. It felt like he was going to freeze to death sometimes but the reality was quite the opposite. 

He had to keep Howard cool. 

“Howard? I’ll be back in a second, yeah, just wait there.” It was an absurd thing to say really, where would Howard go? 

Vince refreshes the water as quickly as he can, stops to grab a fresh flannel, and starts to head back. He pauses a moment though, considering, then hurries to the living room and scoops up his copy of _Cheekbone_ and a bag of sweets he’d gotten halfway through earlier. 

Pushing back into the room he finds Howard now on his front; the deep rise and fall of his breath confirms he is in fact asleep once more. It's probably for the best, sleep was often the best way to combat an illness, but that didn’t stop him from feeling a bit sad at missing out on some classic unguarded Howard ramblings. 

Vince doesn’t leave him this time; he sets the bowl of water beside the bed and climbs on the vacant side next to Howard. As if drawn to his warmth Howard shifts closer. Vince settles himself and flips open his magazine to the place he left off. 

And because Howard is sleeping, Vince allows himself the pleasure of gently combing fingers of his free hand through his slightly damp curls as he reads.

_8\. To feel the fear before you're here_   
_I make the shapes come much too close_

The worst thing about Howard’s dreams; he always knew he was dreaming. 

The rather sad fact of the matter was that he rarely ever dreamed. Not really. His unconscious was typically an incredibly peaceful place that didn’t disturb him with images or sound. Not like Vince, who seemed just as active in his dreams as he did during the day if not more so. He would often wake with tales of fantastical locations and wondrous creatures. 

Howard's imagination was decidedly less committed to providing an escape, it seemed, and it meant whenever he _did_ dream it was glaringly obvious that it was happening. 

The biggest giveaway was all the colour. 

Typically, it was like his flatmate had wriggled into his subconscious and spilled a pallet of his watercolours all over the place. Not at all how Howard Moon expects to dream (A nice nutmeg or an understated khaki is much more in character for his brain). Instead he sees the locations of his sleep set out like vivid murals to his life gone by. 

Sometimes it’s the jungle that Vince has told him about in such detail that he doesn't struggle at all to picture it; complete of course with a vast range of animals, Vince’s family. Creatures he’s never met in person but, again, can see well enough just from what he's heard. 

Sometimes it's the flat, but everything appears to be brighter. The red of the walls bleeding out. The striking colours of Vince's paintings hung up on every other wall reaching to him like grasping fingers. Even their sofa; the black and white geometry pattern seeming to frolic giddily, circles and squares dancing a delicate waltz right before his eyes. 

Most often, though, it’s the zoo. Green uniforms sharper against the backdrop. The hut, ten times cleaner than he ever remembered it being. Animal calls outside the window soothing rather than grating. Everything viewed through rose coloured lenses. 

Vince is always there. 

No matter what the setting. It is always a younger version of himself, too. Bright eyes, blonde highlights, drowning in enthusiasm and hero worship. He's always trying to lure Howard into some kind of mischief in these dreams; uttering the first few lines of a crimp, holding a satsuma in one hand and lifting a brow like it might start a fight, dressing up the koalas in funny outfits. Something to that effect. 

There is probably a great deal to be said about the fact that Howard never dreams, but when he does, it’s of Vince. 

But he isn't going to be the one to say it. 

There’s other occasions. Rarer than dreaming full stop. A likelihood of perhaps one to every one hundred regular dreams. Howard has nightmares. 

He always knows when he’s in those too, which is arguably worse than experiencing the nightmare in an oblivious state. There’s nothing more terrible than knowing every horrific thing you’re experiencing is your own mind punishing you. 

There’s never any colour in those dreams; it's dark and drab and utterly somber. The settings don’t change either, always the same two. 

It’s somewhere hot and stifling but not enough detail for him to identify a solid location. He is surrounded by twisted parodies of what real monkeys look like; mangled bodies and grim features. They grin at him with pointed teeth. 

If not that then it is damp and uncomfortable; stinking of stale salt water and fish - wide blue eyes shrouded by seaweed glinting at him from every angle. 

Vince is never in those dreams. He never comes. 

This time is the same and yet unnervingly different, which already frightens him. 

His subconscious seems to have lost all control of his carefully constructed distinctions between dreams and nightmares, and instead blends them together to create a confusing picture. He’s in the flat, but it’s humid and colourless. He can hear the nasal tones of a demented sea creature calling his name over and over again but he can’t _see_ him. He can only see Vince. 

It’s not a young Vince either. 

It’s Vince as he’d seen him just a few hours ago; with feathered black hair, tight jeans, low cut shirt and leather jacket. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw set in what he can only describe as cold fury. He’s radiating annoyance but he isn’t saying a word to explain why. 

“Vince?” His own disembodied voice asks, but there’s no reply. He tries again. Chants the name over and over but nothing is making his friend react. 

Not until a booming and sickly familiar voice announces _“You are to be cast into the pit of eternal fire, for heinous crimes.”_ \- and he doesn’t even try to argue, because it makes sense to him. Just another way he has failed, like all the others. 

Though he does hold a small candle of hope that if Vince is here then this is perhaps the part where he saves him? 

When he looks back for his friend he is still there, but instead of coming to his rescue he is screaming at him. Well. His mouth is moving; spitting curse words and twisting around what he’s certain will be some harsh insults against his person. There’s no sound coming out though. Honestly he thinks he’d prefer it if there were, there’s something incredibly disturbing about seeing such an outburst in mute form. 

Then it stops. 

Vince goes dead still. Staring at Howard he starts to look more like himself again, if not a little bit sad. There’s recognition in his face - relief even - he opens his mouth and Howard desperately strains to hear what he has to say. He doesn’t get to make a sound. Blue eyes roll back in their sockets and he sags like a rag doll into the scaly arms of Old Gregg who has appeared as if from nowhere behind him.

The way he holds Vince is with little care at all, his head lolls at an awkward angle and at any minute he could go crashing to the floor. Howard wants to take a step forward but his feet have blended with the floor. 

The aquatic psychopath looks between Howard and Vince’s vulnerable form; seems to come to some sick conclusion. _“Do you love me?”_ It sounds less like a question and more like a threat. 

A pathetic whimper rips from his throat. He does the only thing he can think to do. He begs. Except this isn’t the kind of begging he’s done before. 

_“Don’t kill him, he’s got so much to give.”_

He’s not sure why he thinks they’ll listen. They never listen. 

_9.' Cause you know that I can't trust myself with my three A.M. shadow  
I'd rather fuel a fantasy than deal with this alone_

Howard has been asleep for over an hour, and Vince thinks he’s going insane. 

Not from boredom, shockingly, which most people probably would just sitting there in silence while your best friend sleeps. Vince is, unsurprisingly, finding plenty to amuse him in that area. Not least being that in his fevered dream state Howard is unabashadley cuddling him like a teddy bear; head pillowed in his lap and an arm thrown around his waist like he was scared he was going to leave. 

Attempting to read was a lost cause because he was so enraptured with the snuffles and mumbles coming from his friend. Occasionally he’d decipher a word or two. Inconsequential things, about jazz or comments throwing them back to their zoo times ( _Fossil’s looking for me, I’ve got to hide)_. Howard mentions the singing mice again, once, growing irritated with whatever he can hear and cursing it for disturbing him. 

He’d also spent a good five minutes scat singing to himself and even though Vince can already feel his allergies playing up it is hands down one of the best things he’s ever had the pleasure of witnessing. He’d even call it cute, since he was doing it in his head where no one would hear him. 

And then there’s times where he breathes Vince’s name like a prayer and it takes everything in his power not to wake him and demand to know what it means. 

As well as all of that he is still doing all he can to keep Howard cool, which he finds cathartic in a way. There’s not much he can really do to fight Howard’s illness, at least this way he feels like he’s helping. Regularly dabbing his forehead and even going as far as to fan him with the forgotten pages of his magazine is certainly keeping him plenty busy. 

So it definitely wasn’t boredom that was causing his suspected insanity - no that was everything to do with what he thinks he can hear. 

As a part of his everyday life, Vince was more than used to hearing strange things. For starters, he’d been hearing animals talk since he was young. But there were other things. _Ambient Weird_ was basically the descriptor of his lifestyle. 

What most people would tune out as pointless background noise was more akin to a soundtrack to Vince, who as part of his upbringing, had learnt to use noise to read the story of a situation. When Jahooli taught him how to hunt, listening was the second lesson (behind smell). 

Thus, Vince knows the sounds of his own flat almost frighteningly well. He knows every floorboard that creaks when you step on it. Is intimately familiar with the sound of their fridge humming or the rattling of the water pipes when the shower is turned on. Even the downright _strange_ noises; the telltale swish of a magic spell rebounding, the shuffling feet of a jazz trance, the bubbling of a cauldron, the screech of an intergalactic bat that Naboo (for some unknown reason) keeps in his wardrobe. 

It’s the soundtrack of his life. 

So he knows that the strange skittering sound he can hear is definitely new. 

And thing is, he’s torn about how serious this might be, and subsequently whether it’s at all worth his precious attention when he has a best mate delirious with fever kipping on his lap.

On the one hand, it sounds familiar in a very vague sense. Meaning that, some years ago they had discovered they had a mouse living in the back of one of their cupboards. Howard had been outraged (and _terrified_ ) while Vince had found it pretty great. There’d been a beautiful friendship struck up with that mouse. He’d even made him some cool little outfits so that when they eventually asked him to relocate he could hit it off with the other mice and hopefully settle down with someone special. 

Vince likes to think it all worked out and they found a spot beside a french bakery or something. 

This skittering sounds a bit like his mouse friends skittering only slightly different. It’s heavier. Like whatever is running around in the flat is bigger than a mouse - Vince logically thinks perhaps a Rat - but then realises that’s not the only thing that sounds different about it. 

This is the sticking point for him. What makes him want to get up and investigate regardless of how it would disturb Howard - because he can _only_ hear skittering. 

Vince has gotten pretty good at compartmentalising in his brain office over the years (that’s probably why he’s always imagined it as an office in the first place). He has so much going on up there that if he didn’t have a secretary keeping everything in order then he’s almost certain nothing would ever get done. 

One thing that he (the brain secretary) is especially good at packing away into a little box is all the voices. Circling back to the original point, Vince knows a lot of sounds pretty well. Including the ambient noise that is animals talking. 

It’s not a tap, you can’t really turn it off. But it isn’t so different from hearing humans talk - being that Vince can only hear them if they’re in a certain vicinity. But if he’s near an animal then for certain he’s going to be able to hear it if it happens to be chatting. 

Yet at the same time, it was nothing like hearing humans talk, because people were an external source of noise, and animals were all _inside._ It could be a right pain in the arse sometimes. He’d spent most of his Zoo career with a headache from all the yapping going on directly inside his mind tank; Howard had often had to feed him painkillers with his tea most nights after a shift. 

So he always knows when there is an animal around, that’s how he’d known they had a mouse in the first place, way back when. Even if he’s not ‘tuned in’ so to speak then there would still be a background murmur rolling around inside of his skull. 

So when he says this skittering is different to a mouse skittering, what he means is, he can hear the skittering and _nothing else._

He’s listening, straining for the tell tale natter that informs him they’ve got mice again. Hoping they’ve got mice again. Because Howard keeps saying it doesn’t he? When he’s semi conscious and rambling nonsense into the air. He said he’d heard mice in the walls. 

Which is why he finds himself on the fence. He could just go and investigate the strange noise but Howard is so soft and vulnerable in his lap, he _needs_ him here to look after him. Should he go now he runs the risk of waking him up when he needs his sleep most. 

He’s pretty convinced if he can’t hear an accompanying voice then the chances of it being life threatening aren’t very high.

Ultimately, he comes to the conclusion that there is unlikely to be anything (short of vicious aliens or some other such creature breaking into the flat) that would rank higher in his priorities than Howard right now. 

This is proved even more true when Howard twitches in his arms. Upon looking down, he notices his face is twisted in a grimace, chest rising and falling rapidly. 

Vince knows a nightmare when he sees one. 

Howard doesn’t have nightmares. Not really. He’d told him so once, after Vince and his irritatingly frequent bad dreams had woken both of them in the middle of the night. It wasn’t uncommon for Howard to remain awake with him after such an occasion, talking him down from the high pitched squeal of panic still ringing in his ears. 

“You probably don’t have real dreams either, your brains too dull.” Vince had responded at the time, finding his own joke too funny to read into the half grimaced smile Howard had responded with. 

But Howard’s confession hadn’t been all that true. Vince does remember him having a nightmare once, two nights after they’d gotten home from black lake. That time he’d woken up screaming bloody murder and subsequently woken Vince too. 

He wasn’t so naive as to think that was the only time; Howard had calmed himself down too quickly for it to be a one off occurrence. Vince had certainly never witnessed another one like it though; he wonders what’s triggered it in this instance? 

Howard’s breathing picks up speed, and his chest rattles with the effort. Vince barely has a chance to wonder how he can help when a familiar whimper tears from the moustached man’s throat; it’s the kind of noise that usually preludes _“Don’t kill me, I’ve got so much to give.”_

His immediate, if slightly uninventive, solution is to hold him. 

One arm slips around his friend’s shoulders and pulls him closer into his lap. The gentle shushes one might afford a child start shortly thereafter; he even goes as far as to begin to rock them both. 

Howard’s leg kicks out in response to whatever he’s dreaming and catches him right in the shin. It forces a hiss from him but does nothing to stop Vince trying to be near him. The shushing isn’t doing much either so he changes tact and begins talking instead. 

“Howard?” He asks gently, getting no response this time except harsh breathing. “Everything alright in there?” It’s a terrible attempt at humour and only serves to make himself laugh. Which is not the desired goal. 

This time when Howard flails he accidentally smacks the back of his hand right into Vince’s stomach and winds him. If anything, it's marginally hilarious that in his dreams Howard is a fighter when in real life he definitely lands on the side of flight. 

“Bloody hell,” He breathes, rubbing his own stomach soothingly. “Trust you to be a right drama queen about your nightmares.” He decides on drastic measures then. “Two can play at this game, Howard, you great walloping berk.” 

Vince shuffles down the bed so he is laying beside Howard, the other man's head aligned with his collar bone, and throws an arm around his middle. “Remember that time at the zoo?” He starts, “I fell in the monkey pit and you had to come get me out?” A soft laugh escapes him at the memory, Howard’s frantic flailing getting weaker with each spoken word. His chest heaves in the aftermath of his exertion. “The great monkeys poking me all in the eyes - dealt a terrific mauling, I was. Back then, though, you were useful for that sort of thing. Being a hero, I mean.” 

There’s more affection in his tone than he’d like, but that’s not important at the minute. “Saved me from all sorts, you did.” The thoughtless stream of words seems to be helping, at least. Howard is finally still. “Like that bat that got stuck in my hair, do you remember-” 

Howard snuffles, his breathing starts to slow as well. Feeling triumphant, Vince carefully tucks Howard’s head against his neck, tightens his grip around him. “Alright now?” He inquires, not daring to raise his voice above a whisper. “Thought I was gonna have to break out your pony song for a minute there. You were better at that one, though. I always butchered it, didn't I? Probably would have jus' made you worse.”

It takes a second, but Vince knows it’s over. Howard has sagged against him, oblivious in his sleep to their cheeky little cuddle and how it apparently helped. It’s a bit rich, that the most effective form of comfort for the _don’t touch me_ man was a good old fashioned hug. 

Vince is so relieved he could cry. 

It’s a great injustice that Howard should have to suffer inside his own head when he is most vulnerable. 

It reinforces his decision then that he should definitely stay exactly where he is, wrapped around his best friend, just in case. If another strange fever fueled horror invades his friend’s brain then he best be ready, hadn't he? 

_10\. Now if the cold pale light in your eyes_   
_Reaches those horizon lines_   
_You know not to leave her_

When Howard wakes he feels like death. 

Like death that has been put through the ringer three or four times consecutively and then hung out in dry desert air with nothing more than the wind for company (and we all know how that goes). 

Upon shifting he ends up nudging straight into Vince who is for some reason in bed with him rather than in his own on the other side of the room. He’s sprawled on his back, fast asleep with one arm resting over his own stomach and the other - he is stunned to notice - tucked under Howard’s head like a pillow. Their legs are tangled, Howard’s own fingers are clenched in the fabric of his friend’s shirt. His initial reaction is to croak out Vince’s name in a startled question. 

As soon as he hears it the other man shoots awake like a soldier on watch; blue unfocused eyes find him instantly.

“Howard?” Vince’s voice is rough with sleep but that doesn’t stop him rattling on. “You alright? How are you feeling?” The younger man presses himself into a more seated position. Gingerly removing his arm from beneath him so he can scrub at his own eyes. His gaze starts to focus and his voice clears the further he ventures into wakefulness. “Do you need anything?” 

Rather than answer, Howard just shushes him, having not expected the verbal tirade. 

The inside of his head is pounding; stabbing in his temples feels like tiny men with pickaxes trying to dig their way out of his skull. Vince’s concern is appreciated but only aggravating his pain. “Jus’ shush for a second.” He pleads, and for good measure pulls a pillow over his head. 

He has many questions, all of which he’s going to get to in a very good time, he just needs a second to pull himself together. 

Thankfully, Vince can sometimes be remarkably intuitive. When the pillow is pulled from his face he’s presented with a glass of water and a couple of little white pills. “For your head.” He insists. 

Howard starts to push himself into a sitting position, but his arms are wobbling like jelly. He is a bit too proud to actually ask Vince for help though, Vince who is watching him with a knowing look, eyebrow quirked in amusement. 

“Find this funny, do you?” He grumbles, which only serves to broaden the smirk on Vince’s face. 

“Only a bit.” He replies. He reaches out and helps Howard prop himself against the pillows. “You’re a _hilarious_ patient.” 

As much as he’d like to give Vince one of his most serious frowns, it’s a little difficult to do while swallowing down painkillers like your life depends on it (it just might, he can’t be certain). He gives it his best shot though. 

“You still feeling sick?” Vince asks instead. Howard watches as he slides from the bed and fishes out the little medical bag Howard usually keeps in the bathroom cabinet from under the bed. He digs around in it. 

“A bit.” He rasps, throat raw. Clutches the water close to his chest. Watches how it ripples in his shaking fist. 

In one hand Vince now holds a thermometer, while his other moves to Howard’s forehead again, like it had in the shop. “Don’t touch me.” cracks in his throat but just Vince snorts at him. 

“Bit late for that, Howard.” He chuckles gently. 

It’s this exact moment Howard realises he’s only clad in his vest and pants. It’s like a chain reaction starts within him, beginning with indecipherable splutters. This, furthering his embarrassment, leads to his rapidly heating cheeks going a ridiculous pink colour. Ending with him ducking his head low and praying for the ground to swallow him up. 

He’s not even sure what he’s so wound up about. They’ve shared living spaces since they’d ventured into the adult world together; slept on the floor of a drafty keepers hut and now share a bedroom. Vince barely wears clothes half the time. He sleeps in his pants and often, when in the process of getting dolled up, will dart about the flat in sheer kimonos with nothing underneath. There shouldn’t be any shame left between them. Not like this, anyway. 

Vince rolls his eyes at him, vocalises those exact thoughts. “Howard we have Satsuma Fights in our pants, don’t get all prim and proper about it now.” 

And he has a point. 

This time when Vince presses his hand to Howard’s head he doesn’t argue. Closes his eyes against it, but lets it happen. 

“You’re still warm.” Vince hums, uncaps the thermometer he had fished out. His tongue is poking out in concentration as he dutifully takes a reading. “Still very warm.” He sounds so disappointed that Howard almost wishes he could willfully bring his temperature down just to fix it. “Not at all where I want you to be.” 

Howard snorts ungracefully. “And where’s that?” 

“Further towards the arctic end of things and less close to the Sahara.” Vince shoots back easily, tossing the thermometer on the nightstand and nods down at the glass of water still shaking in Howard’s grip. “You done with that?” 

Nodding his head, Howard holds the glass out to be taken and once he is relieved slumps back against the pillows. His throat still feels dry, but he can’t bring himself to swallow down anymore water for fear it isn't going to stay down. “Ugh, my insides are all swimmy.” 

As always, the other man knows exactly what he means. “I won’t bother offering you any food then.” And despite the fact he’s clearly joking Howard still feels his stomach turn just at the thought of it. 

Vince moves to stand and starts to potter about the room. Howard closes his eyes against the sound. His body feels like it’s in a strange state of limbo, not tired enough to get any more sleep just yet and at the same time, completely and utterly drained. For now, he’s content to just listen to the ambient sounds of someone else inhabiting the space with him. There’s the creak of his wardrobe door and the rustle of fabric as he changes clothes, the clinking glass of a perfume bottle. It’s oddly comforting. 

“Time is it?” He asks, peeking his tiny eyes over at where Vince is pulling a fresh shirt over his head. He’s changed his whole outfit while Howard lay prone; slipped out of his tight jeans and fitted jacket and instead into an old pair of trousers - the denim paint stained and ripped - and opted for a t shirt Howard hasn’t seen since the Zooniverse. 

This is Vince Noir's equivalent of comfy clothes. 

Vince shrugs at the question, but still answers. “‘Bout midnight sometime, I haven’t checked.” 

“Feels like it should be morning.” Something catches in his throat, makes him sputter a cough. His chest rattles with the effort and Vince worries his lip with his teeth as he watches on. 

“Your sense of time is going to be all sorts of twisted.” Vince says, moves back to the bed and grabs what looks like a bowl of water. “After a sleepy that long I’m surprised you remember your own name. It might be ten years into the future for all you know. I might have been replaced by a robot.”

“I can only hope so,” Howard huffs. “I think I’m sick.” 

“You think?” Vince cackles with laughter so hard that he almost loses grip of the bowl he’s holding. He has to wipe his eyes when he’s done, and even then his snickers intersperse with his words. “Howard you went wrong. Told me there were singing mice in the walls and everything.” 

“With all the sweets you leave lying around, I wouldn’t be surprised if we _do_ have mice.” Howard is a little too grumpy to properly appreciate the humour behind it all, despite how funny Vince seems to find it. “That was the fever.” 

“The solo scat concert wasn’t _just_ the fever.” Vince teases. “That was a little bit you. I’m gonna have to get my antihistamines out, you jazzy freak.” 

“Better get on that.” He sniffs indignantly. That’s the end of the conversation as far as he is concerned. 

He just hasn’t the energy for their usual level of banter, all quick wit and sharp replies. He’d sooner find himself having another nap. Even if he’s had more than ten hours sleep he still feels like he’s only had three. 

Vince seems to sense this, he’s hovering by the doorway with an armful of assorted items; things he looks like he intends to clean up or refresh respectively. “I’m going to head out there so you can go back to sleep, do you need anything before you do?” He frowns with soft concern. “Something for your throat?” 

Howard shakes his head. He was already getting an ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach, the annoying fizz that told him he was harassing Vince when he would obviously have much better things to do. It was a familiar feeling, and one he didn’t want lingering. The best way to get rid of it was to (in the politest way possible) get rid of Vince. 

But the thing is… he’s busting for the loo. 

He tries to be subtle about it. Misleading himself into believing that his sleep might have rendered him more self-sufficient. Mutters, “Yeah thanks.” and waits until Vince has started to move himself through the door before he shifts and tries to get up. 

Except the other man has got hearing like a bloody jungle cat. He no sooner manages to shuffle to the end of the bed (which takes a lot more effort than he’d initially anticipated and very nearly has him rethinking the whole plot) and plants his feet on the floor than Vince has reappeared in the doorway with an amused grin. 

“Going somewhere, Howard?” Somewhere between here and out there, Vince has managed to relieve himself of the things he’d been carrying and now cocks his hip to one side, leaning with one shoulder against the door frame casually. His grin is unnervingly feline.

“Does it matter?” He replies, hating that his voice wobbles a little in response. 

“Want help?” Vince’s grin falters a little, giving away his underlying concern. It simultaneously makes Howard feel humble and ashamed. He hates being the reason Vince looks like that. 

“I think I’ll be fine.” He lies. 

The second he tries to move he knows it was a mistake to do so. His legs feel like he hasn’t been on them in months, not just hours, and that swimming feeling in his head hasn’t dissipated yet, it’s like having seasickness while standing entirely still. The room around him is doing it’s best impression of a kaleidoscope; all jagged edges and colours blending into one another unnaturally. He ends up reaching out for support and the first thing he finds is his friend. 

Vince breathes, “You’re an idiot.” and shoulders Howard’s weight in an impressive display of hidden strength.

He starts to lead him out of the room with an arm around his waist; Howard pulls them up short. “My robe.” He pleads. 

Mercifully, he gets no arguments on this one. Vince shuffles them the few steps towards the bedroom door and pauses long enough to grab Howard’s favoured terry cloth robe from the back of the door, helping him pull it over his shoulders before they get moving once more. 

He feels just a little less vulnerable now. 

Having been reluctant of the assistance at first, he eventually gives in and throws his arm around Vince’s shoulder. It is arguably one of the most embarrassing things he’s ever gone through - anything the Spirit of Jazz forced him into included - being led to the bathroom like this, despite being completely necessary. 

Howard hasn’t felt this sick since his childhood. 

Besides, he supposes he and Vince have seen each other through plenty of less than proud moments throughout their time. 

On one hand there are the countless instances he’s had to cart Vince to bed when he’s come home off his face and tripping over his own heels; speech slurred, incapable of undressing himself. Lord knows there’s likely been an equal number where Vince has been the one providing some much needed care, after some of their more horrific misadventures - Howard having been the unfortunate victim thereof. 

It’s not _that_ unusual for them to take care of one another, even if it has become less and less frequent lately. 

Thankfully Vince doesn’t try to follow him _into_ the bathroom. Lets him go so he can shuffle his way inside on shaky legs. Just before he shuts the door behind himself, Howard’s conscience gives him a quick talking to about his manners. He stutters a soft, but sincere, “Thanks, Vince.” 

It’s Vince’s turn to shrug him off. Doesn’t even say a word, but the look in his eye is clear enough. This is what best friends do - or, this is what _they_ do. 

After finishing his business he spares a moment to splash some water on his face. He’s still clammy, and the cold helps, it at least gives him the illusion of personal hygiene. That’s probably why he reaches for his comb too, but he finds that it’s gone. Come to think of it, his comb _and_ Vince’s bedazzled toothbrush are absent from their usual place on the counter. 

If he had access to more brain power he would perhaps realise how strange this is; alas, in this particular moment he couldn’t care less. In the mirror, he takes stock of what a state he looks; there is already a dusting of stubble showing on his face, his curls matted with sweat are in disarray, the bags under his eyes more pronounced on his washed out skin. There’s not really a lot to be done about it right now; he is forced to accept that he will likely remain this way until he feels a bit more like himself. 

Vince is there when he creaks the door open. Literally waiting with open arms, ready to return him to bed, but Howard shrugs him off for good this time. “I can manage,” He promises gently. The dizziness has passed the longer he’s been standing and while his limbs feel a little like rubber and his bones ache, he’s stable enough on his feet to maneuver himself around. For now. 

Rather than head back to the bedroom, though, he directs himself to the kitchen. Somewhere in his head he still held the belief that if he carried on as normal then he might shake this thing just as fast as it came on. 

Despite being a pessimist, he does have his optimistic moments. 

Vince catches him staring longingly at their aged kettle and snatches it off the stove before Howard can attempt to reach for it. Denying him what, in his mind, is the one thing he really _needs_. “You’ll just throw it all up, Howard.” He claims. Nodding at the sink instead. “Just water for now, yeah?” 

It’s surely an anomaly that Vince is right this many times in a row. Alas, his insides swiftly remind him that his nausea hasn’t passed at all but is instead lying threateningly low in his stomach like a promise.

Something tells him he hasn’t quite gotten through the worst of it yet. 

“You should go back to bed too.” Vince now stands pointedly between Howard and the living room. His feet are planted apart, his arms folded over his chest. Despite being barefoot and therefore a good few inches shorter than Howard his stance radiates defiance. He’s set like a bouncer ready to toss a rowdy drunk out on their arse and in this situation he could probably do it. “You ain’t gonna get any better wanderin’ about the flat.” 

“It’s just a bit of flu, Vince.” 

“For now.” And there’s a glint in his eyes, something Howard rarely gets to see - worse than the flash of concern from earlier. This is genuine, deep seated worry. 

Vince isn’t a worrier. Howard is resolutely in charge of doing all of the worrying for the both of them, that’s been his job since forever. But Vince sets his jaw and his gaze is stern. “People die from flu, Howard, if they’re not careful. I ain’t carrying your great northern arse all the way to A&E because you’re being stubborn about it.” 

Normally he’d put up a bit more of a fight. 

Though in fairness, he’d also normally be able to stand without swaying or hold a glass of water without his hands shaking it all over the floor. So he just huffs and turns back towards the bedroom. 

It’s slow going but he makes it there under his own steam. Vince trails behind; keeps enough distance to not crowd him yet close enough to be the safety net should the taller man suddenly collapse. 

Entering the room while marginally more awake than last time, Howard starts to notice the rather impressive level of preparedness Vince is displaying. Obviously he’d noticed the big things. The mop bucket by the bed, his poached _‘in case of emergencies’_ medical kit, the glass of water and blister packs of paracetamol. All of that was common sense even Vince was capable of. 

But there was more than just common sense here, he notices, as he gingerly lowers himself to sit on his mattress once more. The curtains have been drawn, preventing any light getting in and disturbing him. There’s foods stacked about as well - appropriate foods. Plain Digestives and crackers, the kind of thing someone can nibble on when their stomach isn’t agreeing with them - bland and small - unlikely to unsettle an already delicate digestive system. 

There’s a single damp flannel discarded on the floor by the bed, most likely dropped by Vince when on his clean up mission. But he already knows what that was for, it was a trick Howard remembers using on a younger Vince when he caught a bug at the zoo. 

The evidence would suggest he is in very good hands. 

Vince reappears, effectively ending his thought process; he’s carrying a fresh glass of water in his hand. “In case you can handle some more, don’t want you dehydrating.” 

It’s the process of disrobing that does it.

Despite being sat, and the fact he is moving like he is made of glass, his body must decide that the little jaunt around the flat was too much for it to take. Vince takes his dressing gown and hangs it up the second it’s free of his arms, and while his back is turned Howard finds himself groaning in displeasure. 

The churning in his stomach picks up intensity. Hoping it will help, he leans forward on his elbows, dipping his head low and tries to breathe through the sensation. Vince reads the situation and inserts himself at his side to offer comfort in the form of a hand on his back. 

It helps to ground him a little, at least, but does nothing to stop the wave of uncomfortable heat that rushes from his head to his toes and the rough clench his stomach gives as warning. 

It’s all water, what retches from him. He hasn’t had anything solid to eat in ages, thankfully, and the fact he’d only had a mouthful or two to drink earlier means there’s not much to come up, either. He’s soon left dry heaving into his bucket with Vince’s fingers dancing up and down his spine soothingly. 

“Sorry.” He mutters once he had nothing left to come up, more out of embarrassment than anything. 

“S’alright.” Vince insists with a smile in his voice. “Remember the first time I got drunk and was sick all over your shoes?” He sweeps the bucket away, nudges at Howard’s shoulder until he lays back down. “We’ve all been there.” 

“I liked those shoes.” Howard hums fondly. 

“I said I’d replace them.” 

“And yet, a decade later. Still no shoes.” At least he still has it in him to chuckle. If it could be called chuckling, there was more breath to it than his usual bassy laughter. 

“I _will_ get ‘em.” Vince insists. He’s gone after that, Howard watches him disappear through the open bedroom door and settles himself as best he can. 

That seems to be easier said than done, however. His traitorous body can’t seem to make up its mind what comfortable _actually is_ . He fidgets in his attempt to find out. Carefully, _very_ carefully, he rolls from one side to the other. Settles on his back once more. The blanket suffers next, he kicks it off and then reaches to drag it on again because neither is what he wants. 

A Vince level pout is forming on his face when his friend returns, empty and rinsed bucket in hand. He has the audacity to smirk down at him in amusement as he replaces it beside the bed. 

“Alright?” 

“I hate being ill.” He grumbles, once again pulling the blanket up to his neck and tucking it around himself. 

Without a second thought, Vince pulls the thick duvet away from him. “I don’t think many people actually like it, y’know.” 

“Give me my duvet.” 

“You’re still burning up, Howard!” Vince does his best to replicate that stern look from the living room, but from where Howard’s lying, it ends up looking more smug at his newfound control of the situation. “Your duvet is thicker than me. You shouldn’t use that until your fevers broken.” 

Howard doesn’t get a chance to add comment to that. Neither to ask him what they’re supposed to do instead, nor to inform him that this whole experience is rather proving how _not_ thick Vince is. 

Well. 

He is still a _bit_ thick but he can be incredibly clever in the places that it mattered. 

Vince has strut over to his own bed and returns with a quilt that is a lot thinner than the weight of Howard’s. He settles this time, seats himself without question right beside him on the bed and tugs the quilt over them both. Where he’s sat up against the headboard leaves Howard’s head level with his thigh. 

Inexplicably, while making eye contact, he pats his lap invitingly. 

“What?” Howard asks. 

“Pillow.” Is all the explanation Vince provides. Howard sputters, Vince snickers. “It’ll help your head, I promise.” 

And Howard has a _don’t touch me_ rule for a reason, that being because he largely doesn’t like contact. Except from a very small group of bearable people. Two people. One of whom was his mother. The other (being a walking exception to a great many rules) was Vincent Noir. 

But that didn’t mean he ever really let Vince touch him either, for a whole host of other reasons that would take far more time and brain effort than he had spare to get into right now. But the long and short of it; there was only so much affection one could accept before the heart started to get the wrong idea. 

That being said, while he wasn’t at one hundred percent it _might_ be okay to let this happen. 

Even he’s not so uptight as to ignore the fact that a little bit of affection when you felt this terrible could go a long way. 

Outwardly though, he maintains his reputation as best he can - pulls a sour lemon face that demonstrates his utter reluctance - as he delicately shifts his position to rest his head comfortably in Vince’s lap. 

He’s about to add a grumbling set of remarks to this act, but as if sensing them coming, Vince shushes him. “Did I ever tell you about when I was young in the jungle, and the elephants tried to teach me to ballroom dance?” 

As he asks, deft slim fingers find their way into Howard’s curls. It makes all protest die in his throat to be instead replaced with a breathy. “Yeah, I think so.” 

“Want me to tell you again?” Vince already knows the answer to this, Howard can hear it in his voice. Can tell how much he wants the verbal confirmation, though, otherwise why would he have asked at all. 

Who was he to deny him anything? 

“Yes, Vince.” He gives himself over to how nice this feels. “Tell me again.” 

Howard closes his eyes and lets his friend's gentle voice wash over him. 

_11\. I could smell the Prozac in your pretty hair_   
_Got a lot of friends, but is anyone there_

It really doesn’t take long for Howard to disappear back into sleep once he lets himself relax. 

Which really, had been Vince’s whole intention. The more sleep he had the better, especially as they seemed to be reaching a point where Howard was not only feverish but also actively expelling anything that went into his stomach. While he slept, Vince intended to reevaluate his nurse duties and take care of some minor odd jobs about the flat. 

Though getting his usually physically distant friend to consent so openly to a bit of affection also felt pretty good. He’d be a fool if he didn’t let himself appreciate that for a second. 

Okay, five whole minutes. 

Slipping from underneath him is easy, Howard had always been a bit of a heavy sleeper, he snuffles his disgust at being moved but Vince makes sure to tuck him up properly before heading out into the flat at large. 

The first thing he does is dump all those wet clothes from earlier (that are starting to develop a bit of a funny smell as they dry - likely down to the alien rain) into the washing machine. 

After that it’s like he has kick started a brief spell of motivation. Which is rare for him; despite being the embodiment of energy, he is very selective about where that energy gets directed - and it normally isn’t at mundane tasks like washing dishes or organising their coffee table. But, after his failed necklace search earlier the place is in a bit of disarray. 

It’s of course during this brief tidy he notices some things are amiss. 

For a start, items are not where he remembers leaving them before he had retreated into the bedroom with Howard. Little inconsequential things; like his sewing kit (which okay, yes, he does have a habit of leaving lying around) which is open and its contents spilling about the floor. Howard’s book has seemingly relocated itself from the coffee table to the floor. 

Things that, in all honesty, Vince can’t remember if he _had_ actually moved all those hours ago. 

It was sticking closer to two o’clock in the morning. An overall terrible time of morning for Vince’s already limited brain operation. 

Thus he very nearly writes it all off as being a bit knackered and preoccupied with his friend slash patient in the other room, to really take notice of what he’d been tossing around. 

This train of thought lasts right up until he finds the box he’d been given in (what he is now fondly calling) the glitter realm. The thing was nestled on the floor right by the armchair, for all the world innocent in its outward appearance. But. 

“I didn’t move you.” He says aloud to no one, but with the utmost of certainty. “I _d_ _efinitely_ didn’t move you.” 

When he looks closer the wrongness of the picture starts to become clearer. Yet more things are missing, now that he’s looking for them. Spools of thread from his sewing kit. The engraved steel bookmark Howard kept in that hulking great book, nowhere to be seen. One of Howard’s fancy fountain pens and a stack of his half finished scribblings - gone. 

“What is goin’ on?” He hardly expects an answer, given that there’s not a soul around to give him one. But the silence still puts him on edge all the same. 

That’s when a seemingly distant memory resurfaces. The skittering. The mice in the walls. Felt like an age ago already but now he’s kicking himself for not investigating at the time. It’s got to mean something, knowing them, it all connected somehow, surely? 

Annoyed, he turns his attention back to the only anomaly in their flat. It feels like that box is taunting him where it sits in the dim lamplight of the room. It’s smirking at him, Vince thinks, daring him to do something about it. 

His phone rings from somewhere, a shrill exclamation of noise that pulls his gaze away from it’s target. The cheery Electro beats echo through the flat until he finally manages to dig the thing out from an abandoned jacket behind the sofa. 

Leroy’s name gleams at him. 

Vince groans. He isn't entirely sure he is mentally prepared for a conversation with him. Especially not when it's the early hours of the morning and the berk is probably half cut. He couldn't be _less_ excited for that kind of call. 

But he knows that Leroy can be persistent when ignored. 

“Alright, Leroy?” He answers with as much cheer as possible to mask how tired he probably sounds; makes a point to keep his eyes fixed on the offending box as he talks - like he might catch it in the act. “It’s two in the morning, you freak, what d’you want?” 

“Vince!” Leroy manages to convey many things in that word alone; confusion, excitement, annoyance, and exactly how drunk he is. Vince wouldn't be surprised if he was still out there somewhere in the dark streets of London. “Everybody missed you tonight, what happened?” 

Shit. Vince was supposed to be out - as he was almost every night of the week anyway - it was some friend of a friend's girlfriend’s birthday or something. They were intending on going to some trendy 80’s themed nightclub. Vince had said he would be there. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He’d learnt long ago sometimes it was easier to avoid giving a reason, most people (Leroy) would fabricate their own. 

Thankfully, it works, Leroy starts cackling down the line. “You’re a cheeky minx, Noir.” He slurs. Vince rolls his eyes but finds himself smirking. “You on for tomorrow, then?” 

Leroy had known him and Howard since they were young, but on the face of it, Vince had always felt like he had more in common with him than Howard did. Since moving from the zoo he wasn’t sure Howard had even spoken to him without him also being present - and Vince, well Vince became the prince of Camden and Leroy often took it upon himself to help him maintain that image like some kind of manager. 

All Vince had to do was show up and be charming. 

“Tomorrow night?” He repeats, struggling to find the relevant memory of what he was supposed to be doing then. 

“Yeah,” Leroy exhales heavily, Vince can imagine him with a cigarette in hand. “New place opening in Camden, supposed to be genius.”

And now he remembers. He remembers the flashing coloured lights and one too many flirtinis. A bright eyed preppy young thing gushing to him about this new club he was promoting and how it “ _would be so cool if you could stop by.”_ Because where Vince Noir goes, most people tend to follow. He thinks he remembers agreeing, or rather, Leroy agreeing on his behalf. 

Normally it would be an instant yes. But it’s tomorrow night - technically tonight when you consider the time - and Vince isn’t certain Howard’s going to be better then. He’s not sure they’ve even hit the worst of it yet and expecting him to have come round in less than twenty four hours was hoping for a bit much. Vince had witnessed miracles more likely than that. 

“Yeah, see, thing is Leroy,” He starts, clearing his throat to force the words out. Vince was a born people pleaser, having to disappoint someone - one of his friends at that - was difficult for him. “I think I’m gonna have to give it a miss.” 

Leroy starts arguing him down, of course he does, warns him that Vince’s reputation won’t hold up without him there to reinforce it but he doesn’t hear a word of it. Not really. 

He’s far too preoccupied watching a scrap of sequin fabric (leftover from a sewing project) that had previously been wedged behind their boat bar start _moving_. After dragging itself free, it carefully maneuvers its way across the floor in a lump. Coming from underneath that fabric - where the driving force of the movement resides - is a strange skittering noise like claws on laminate. 

Vince drops his phone without a second thought and moves to grab the thing. He darts forward, crashing painfully onto his hands and knees, and tries to close his hands around it. Whatever it is must see him coming though because with a God-awful screech it disappears. Literally. Like one minute it’s there and then in the blink of an eye, it’s gone. Fabric sags prone to the floor, no longer of use as a shroud and forgotten. 

Panicked, Vince rolls up onto his knees and turns to locate the very thing he’d been trying to keep an eye on all that time - but the box is gone. 

“Shit.” He breathes. 

Probably not mice then. 

_12\. Now you're wired and you're tired_   
_There is never a break_

Howard’s next venture into consciousness does not get off to a great start. 

In fact, he barely gets the chance to register that he's awake before he’s rolling onto his side and putting that mop bucket to good use for a second time. Bile burns his throat. Tears sting at his eyes. Overall, a terrible wake up call. 

Vince appears in the doorway within seconds of the heaving starting; a testament to how closely he was listening out for Howard being awake. That’s what makes him realise Vince wasn’t _in the bed with him_ ; the space beside him feels suddenly too cold to stand. 

There’s a look of sympathy in his friend’s eyes that makes Howard’s stomach churn worse than any illness could; he’s never been good at taking sympathy from other people. Much preferred to live up to the illusion that he was above anyone’s pity. The only saving grace is that Vince doesn’t verbalise his thoughts; likely knows it won’t be welcome. Instead, he goes about his caretaker duties in silence - sweeps from the room with the bucket in hand. 

Howard swears he only blinks and Vince has suddenly returned, deposited the fresh bucket, and is looming over him with a concerned frown. “Howard?” He whispers. 

His face is close enough from where he has sat himself beside him that Howard can see the worry lines on his friend's forehead. Thoughtlessly, he reaches out with a shaky hand and brushes his thumb over them. “They’ll be permanent if you’re not careful.” He blurts. 

The comment manages to coax a smirk from his friend, at least, but it doesn’t do a great job of masking the far more serious undertone. Vince’s anxiety is so rarely on display that it chokes Howard in its obviousness now. It’s surrounding him like a thick smog; clogging up their lungs and polluting the atmosphere. “What’s wrong?” 

It’s a tiny thing, just the briefest of movements, but Vince’s eyes dart back over his shoulder to the open doorway - and subsequently the rest of the flat. Howard drags his eyes to the sliver of hallway he can see, for a second believing he might actually spot something horrifying lingering in the space between the door and the frame. 

He’s taken a huge step backwards. There’s no doubt about it.

Earlier he’d felt like utter rubbish but he’d been somewhat aware of himself. Now it’s like his body is operating on a delay, the movements and words tumbling from him in a haphazard manner before his brain has even decided to make them happen. Things are swimming around him that really shouldn't swim. Vince’s voice is distant. 

It’s a bit like being drunk, he thinks with a small huff of amusement. 

Vince had said he was saying crazy things in his sleep - he definitely remembered dreaming some equally insane things - and this was like being in limbo between those two places. Awake, aware this was reality, and yet unable to apply the filter in his brain enough to stop him sounding like a complete nutter. 

Is this what out of body experiences were like? 

“‘S not old Gregg back, is it?” He utters. He hasn’t dropped his hand from Vince’s face. Quite the opposite. Acting on its own accord, his palm cups his cheek in a much more affectionate fashion than a regular Howard would ever stand for. Thumb poised on a sharp cheekbone. 

“No,” Vince responds easily. “Nothing that horrific, I promise.” 

“So, what then?” 

Vince stares down at him earnestly, heaves a large sigh, and then averts his eyes. “I’m just worried about you, you berk.” As much as his voice is sincere, Howard finds himself not quite believing him. “You’re temperature isn’t budging and you still can’t drink anything.” 

Howard realises the other man is holding a thermometer in his hand. He must have taken his temperature again but there’s no recollection of it happening. 

And because it’s an instinct he’s never been able to shake, he offers comfort regardless of how bleak the situation looks. “It’ll be fine, little man.” 

Something passes over Vince’s face that he isn’t quick enough to decipher. Blue eyes wide, staring at him, a little glassy and full of emotion. Then Vince carefully plucks Howard’s hand from his face and lays it back against his side on the bed. “Yeah, you’re right.” He says quietly. “Do you want to try some more water?” 

The thought makes Howard’s delicate stomach protest, and he wrinkles his nose to show his distaste at the idea. Vince gnaws at his lip, barely contains his frown. 

Howard’s guilt sits at the hollow of his throat and threatens to asphyxiate him. Even in this state he feels the weight of what Vince is doing for him. Neither of them are heartless, they’d always look after each other, but he always (perhaps wrongly) believed Vince to be more of a ‘bare necessities’ kind of person. 

This must be driving him mad, having to be the boring responsible one for a change. 

“Sorry.” He breathes, staring up at the ceiling rather than look his friend in the eye. 

Vince actually _laughs_ at him. Airy and disbelieving. “What for, you northern lump, for getting sick?” 

“Yup.” Howard closes his eyes this time. “Plenty of better things to be doing than being my nurse.” 

Howard can hear the smirk in Vince’s voice as he says, “Nah, it’s fun to be the grown up sometimes.” 

“It’s scary, you being the grown up.” He mumbles. 

"I quite like it." The genuine amusement in his tone washes over him like warm water. Some people liked the sound of ocean waves, or birdsong, Howard quite liked the sound of Vince being happy. "Reckon I'll spend more time like this. Might do me some good, don’t you think?" 

At that, Howard shakes his head, forces his eyes open for the purpose of delivering a classic Moon frown. "No. Nope. You'd hate it." He insists. "Too much tax and not enough fun." 

“Tax?” Vince mimes getting sick, tongue poking out of his mouth. "Ugh, you’re right. I’ve gone wrong just hearing that. That’s disgustin’." 

"You're much too pretty to be the grown up." 

Vince’s face does a wonderful routine of gymnastics through several different reactions, from shock to confusion to mirth. What he lands on though is delicate flattery interspersed with heavy glee. "N'aw You think I'm pretty, Howard?" 

"I think you're beautiful." He breathes. 

And being drunk on fever does nothing to stop him _knowing_ he's going to regret saying that when he's back to himself again. Had he been capable of applying a filter, he'd never have allowed a raw thought like that to pop out in the first place. 

He definitely would have had the good sense to mask its sincerity. 

But it was in the air now, sailing up like balloons full of helium. Getting trapped against the ceiling and refusing to pop so that they'd forget they ever existed. Nope. They hung there, plain for all to see. 

Vince looks almost _upset_. His eyes shiny with unshed tears. Howard can't stand to look at him, knowing there is no response coming. Not the kind he’d want, anyway. So he drags his (Vince’s) sheet up to his chin and makes a point of squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he dares. 

“You off back to sleep?” He hears the strain in Vince’s voice. Like he had to force the words out. But answering it is going to take more effort than he currently possesses. The darkness is closing in on him again, he thinks he _will_ have another little sleep.“Howard?” 

Howard can see the colourful tones of Vince’s voice behind his eyelids. They follow him into his dreams. 

_13\. I started blurring the lines because I didn't care_   
_I started blurring the lines, 'cause you were never there_

Vince stays in the bedroom long after Howard has passed out again. 

Not beside him. It feels too intimate to perch on his bedside holding a vigil. After everything that’s been said being in the same room as him feels too intimate. But he can’t go, not yet. Anything more than arms length away from him is like running away, so he does his best to compromise. 

He slides to the floor beside the bed. Presses his back against the side until it starts to hurt. Folds himself practically in half with his knees tucked to his chest; forehead resting against the bones of his kneecaps - arms thrown about his shins to hold the whole position in place. 

There were times, when he was young, that Vince would find a secluded place and sit like this. Hiding from something. Curling himself into the smallest shape possible, making a smaller target. And there he’d stay by himself until someone (Bryan Ferry, whatever animal was tasked with his care that day, any one of the many foster parents he filtered his way through in his teens, _Howard_ ) found him and coaxed the problem from him with gentle hands and gentler words. 

It’s been a while since he’s felt the need to hide.

Howard’s not snoring anymore, but his chest rattles with each deep breath he takes. Reminding Vince over and over again that’s he’s _sick, he’s not himself._

Which is exactly the crux of the problem isn’t it? 

He can turn his head just so and see Howard sleeping peacefully but is it really _Howard._ It was reaching into some Tommy Nooka level of philosophy; but people do change when they’re sick. Especially when they’re _this_ sick. They say all sorts of things. He’s heard about it. He lived it once. They hallucinate and get confused and misinterpret all sorts of external stimuli as other things. 

When he’d gotten sick he had thought Howard was a hyena intent on giving his bones a good nibbling. 

_They say all sorts of crazy things that they_ don’t mean. 

And as far as Vince is concerned Howard is still deteriorating. 

It’s ticking over to five am. Howard has been in bed for twelve hours and is still fighting his fever. The only thing that can be considered a silver lining is that Howard’s temperature is no longer going up. It’s still high, frighteningly so. But it appears to have reached a point of plateau. The past two readings have sat at an uncomfortable 39.5 degrees. A very high fever, only a hair's width away from the need for hospitalisation. 

He’s already sworn to himself if it ticks any higher he’ll get professionals involved. 

Currently, his largest concern is getting some fluid into Howard’s system. The temperature was going to make him sweat (it _was_ making him sweat) and if he continues vomiting like this any time they put water in his stomach he’ll get dehydrated. 

Which is the second promise he makes himself. If they can’t get something to stay down next time he’s awake then he’s calling for help.

Who’s going to do the stocktaking if Howard dies? 

For now, he can afford to let him sleep while he has his internal crisis. He’ll be of no help to anyone until he lets all this drama run its course inside of him. Emotions can be a lot like having toddlers pottering about in your subconscious; if you want them to nap you’re going to have to let them go a bit crazy for a while. Tire them out enough so you can get a moment's peace to get on with the important things. 

He turns his head just so to catch a glimpse of that peaceful visage. 

Howard had touched him, not _that_ uncommon, for someone who likes to avoid being touched he has never had a problem initiating contact with Vince of his own accord. This was different than a guiding hand on his shoulder or restraining grip on his elbow though. He’d cupped his face, brushed his thumb over the point of a cheekbone. Everything about it had been reverent; like he was made of china. Words whispered to him were delicate as if any noise at all would shatter him. 

He’d called him little man. The second time tonight. It had been a considerable amount of time since Vince had last heard that nickname spoken with such affection; he’d been forced to bite his tongue to keep from weeping in his arms over it all. 

There was just _so much_ going on inside him. So used to being the empty headed beach ball type Vince had forgotten what it was like to have deep and existential concerns. 

Naturally he was incredibly uneasy about Howard's health. Uneasy wasn't even a strong enough descriptor. He was _terrified_. 

Luckily Vince was good at putting on a cool front. It was a talent of his, wearing the face displaying whatever he needed someone to see. He could be a block of clay molded to the eye of the beholder. It was barely any effort at all - so when Howard was awake (and aware enough to notice) he would laugh heartily and make jokes at their expense and smirk down at him like all of this was _so easy_. 

But it wasn’t. Not even close. 

It's not even that the act of care was the difficult part. He was more than confident in his abilities of looking after someone (specifically Howard) after all, he’d been doing it in his own little way for long enough. What scared him most was the idea that all he was doing might still not be adequate. 

It felt a lot like reading a choose your own adventure book as a child. Making a decision and flipping to the page, anxious hope swirling in your tummy that you'll get the happy ending, only to find out you've picked the worst possible path. 

He can't really keep his thumb on the page and have another go where this is concerned can he? If he accidentally makes the wrong choice then there's a real chance someone suffers. 

Even if he makes the right one it could all fall apart. Sometimes these things just got out of control. 

And because this wasn’t hard enough, Howard had reverted to a version of himself Vince had almost forgotten existed. A younger soul, less tainted with a negative experience of the world. The kind of person who worried about Vince’s frown lines on his behalf. The friend who told him things were going to be alright even if they were tied up in an ice cave or buried up to their necks in sand. The Howard whose jokes didn’t feel like they were secretly slights against him and he was just too thick to understand. 

It felt good. 

It was reaching into the darkest, most suppressed, places inside of Vince and grabbing things by their perfectly feathered hairdos in order to expose them to the light of day. 

Things like a long forgotten hope that one day he'd be able to look at Howard and feel _seen._ Like his complete and utter devotion to the man that had often gone missed - or ignored. Like how much he'd wanted to be enough for him. 

Ideas so withered and dull because they'd been packed up in boxes along with the rest of their belongings from the keepers hut and then never looked at again. 

And it makes him so _sad_ because where had they gone wrong? 

Vince wasn’t naive enough to think it was all one or the others fault. They both played their role in tearing this thing apart from the inside out. A coconut friend, one too many instances of choosing other people, an insistence on pointing out each other's flaws at every opportunity in a less than comedic manner, a name left off a bill and a trip to Denmark. It took the two of them to orchestrate the downfall of this empire, and it was going to take them both to build it back up again. 

When Howard, out of it with fever, said things like that, he wanted to cry with relief. _We can save this, we can, Howard._

But it's just more choices in the pages of his adventure book and he's too scared to turn over and see what might happen. 

Mix in the sheer _fucking annoyance_ of having something alien in their flat that Vince for the life of him couldn't track down. Being completely unsure as to how dangerous it was to them, or what it wanted was only adding to his feelings of frantic worry - as well as winding him up. 

All he knew for sure was that he had been the one to bring it here in that stupid bloody box because he just couldn’t help himself. As always. 

Howard was going to have a field day with that one when he was conscious enough to notice. 

And the cherry on the cake? He was operating on perhaps two and a bit hours sleep he’d managed to steal in Howard’s bed. Not wholly unusual for him - it wasn’t unheard of for Vince to power through almost two solid days of nights out if his schedule so fell that way - but the most he ever had to worry about on days like that was his outfit and not getting too drunk. 

He wasn’t used to all of this extra stuff being piled on top. 

How Howard gets by with his rich and dark internal struggles all the time is beyond him because Vince has only been at this for half a day and it's already getting the better of him. 

So maybe he cries. A bit. 

It isn't his usual extravagant display. Tears weren't as foreign to Vince as he'd like to pretend. A good tantrum often brought them out in fleeting and dramatic form. But deep sadness is the kind of thing he doesn't like anyone to witness (leaving the zoo behind and the two weeks Howard was gone notwithstanding). 

This is a silent affair. 

He sits on the bedroom floor beside a sleeping Howard's bed and lets the tears roll down his cheeks freely; he daresn't reach for his friend’s clammy hand no matter how much he wants the physical reassurance. He's too afraid it will set him off worse. 

Ten minutes. That is all he will allow. Then, he wipes his face with the back of his hand (perhaps a little too roughly) and presses himself to his feet. 

He pauses at the mirror a moment to tidy his appearance. Plucks at strands of his hair and uses careful fingertips to wipe away tear tracks. The end product isn't perfect, but it will do. He flashes himself a winning smile and a wink. Just to remind himself (and his reflection) that he's still Vince Noir and he will come out the other side of this. He always does. 

Right now, though, Vince has got a creature to hunt. 

As it stands his plan is to hunt the thing down and catch it before Howard ever has a chance to notice something is amiss. What he'll do with it after that is still somewhat in the air. 

Before Howard's retching had drawn him away, he had spent a good while turning their flat upside down for a second time that evening, hoping to find some evidence as to the creature's existence. Because the real kicker was that he hadn’t even really seen it - just a moving shape under a scrap of discarded fabric. 

Staring around the wreck of their living room now he starts to think that perhaps the search and capture tactic might not be the best way to go about this. Perhaps setting a trap might afford him more luck, since one of the only things he can safely say about this creature is that it likes to steal things. 

But what do you use to lure an alternate dimension cat burglar? 

He looks longingly at the phone hung on the wall by the stairs, and thinks of Naboo. 

They’d both been given a warning before he left. No funny business this time. Naboo was getting tired of digging them out of trouble and each time having to explain to the council exactly how they'd gotten into trouble in the first place. 

Apparently when you make as much money off of shady shamanistic side dealings as Naboo did, you really don't want to be carted in front of the council every other week. 

That bit of information had made a lot of things in their lives make sense - like how the shop stays open despite making no money. 

But surely the shaman wouldn’t mind if he gave him a quick phone call just to say, _hey I think there’s some magical funny business going on in our flat and oh yeah- will Howard die of flu?_

He shakes that thought off as quickly as it arrives, though. He would mind. He'd mind _very much._

Vince drags a hand through his hair, tugs at it just enough to sting and ground himself a bit. He takes one deep breath, holds it to a count of three like Howard had once taught him and releases it again in a deep sigh. “Don’t worry Vince. It’s just one little alien, how hard can it be?” 

Comforting himself might sound silly, but it works. A plan forms. 

One of his more everyday accessories is unlatched from his wrist; a thin diamante thing he'd had since he was a teen. At this point he often puts it on if he isn't planning to be seen outside of the flat - because even if Vince isn't leaving the house he'll still get _dressed_. Accessories and all. He holds it up in one hand so the room at large can see it, while the other hand reaches for the throw off the back of the sofa. “Alright. You like nicking things, you little ballbag? I’ll give you something to nick.” 

A throw was just as good as a net, right? 

_14\. I don't believe the words you said_   
_But I can't find the words I want_

It’s been two hours of hunting, and Vince is about ready to tug his own hair out in aggravation (yeah, it’s that bad). 

The flat is in a state; as far as he can tell he still hasn’t come remotely close. He had eventually pulled enough brain power together to set up a makeshift trap using whatever miscellaneous items he can find lying about and his bracelet as a form of bait. 

Now he just has to wait for it to work. 

The perfect time to check on Howard, he thinks. Pushing into the room with a glass in one hand and a flannel in the other, he finds the other man curled on his side in a fetal position. Arms curled up about his chest. He’s one thumb in his mouth away from looking like a child again. 

He sets the glass on the side and seats himself in his usual spot right beside him; his hip is touching Howard’s knee with how he’s curled. “Howard?” He asks, giving his voice enough volume to hopefully rouse the other man. “Howard.” 

It works, especially when he lightly prods at his middle. Howard's face scrunches up in distaste at being woken, and then carefully, both his eyes flutter open. It’s a good sign, but Vince is yet to hear if he is Howard or Fever-Howard, so he does not let the optimism overtake him just yet. 

One thing is for sure, Howard is actually _pouting_ at him by the time he reaches full consciousness. 

“I _never_ see you pout.” Vince gasps, full of joy. 

It very quickly morphs into a scowl. “I’m not pouting,” Howard’s voice is pitched low and gravelly with sleep. Though by how he pauses to cough into his fist, Vince thinks it might also be a bit of his chest bothering him as well. “I don’t pout. I’m much too dignified to pout, that’s the sort of thing you do.” 

The whole argument sounded as if it was torn from Howard’s throat unwillingly, and Vince winces in sympathy. “Oh so you’re back enough to be rude, then.” He teases, nudges at Howard’s shoulder until he rolls onto his back so he can lay the wet flannel over his forehead carefully - Howard groans in relief. “You went a bit loopy again before.” 

“I think I remember that one.” Howard grumbles. 

“Not as loopy as sleeping Howard,” Vince consoles. Neither acknowledge the fact they’re both flushed over the memory; there was plenty that they weren’t going to acknowledge about the last twenty four hours why not add more. “But you did think Old Gregg was back.” 

“You looked worried,” Howard utters quickly, defensively. “Thought maybe something got into the flat.” 

Vince hopes he hides his guilt better this time. Opts to distract him by handing him a glass; this time void of water and instead filled with ice cubes. To which Howard snorts his amusement. “What, have I got to wait for it to melt?” 

It’s probably a bit childish for him to stick his tongue out at his friend, but that’s what he does. 

“It’s to keep you hydrated, you prat.” He explains. “You’re staging some sort of revolt against water so I had to be smart about it.” He’s proud of how he manages to keep the wobble out of his voice as he talks. Paints the whole thing in an air of smug playfulness. “If you suck on an ice cube it’s gonna let the water trickle into you - a bit less harsh on your insides. Hopefully you won’t throw up this time.” 

Howard is just staring at him, completely unreadable - Vince feels the need to keep himself busy to escape that gaze. 

A perfect opportunity to take his temperature again, really. This time, he makes a little noise of triumph when the number finally announces itself as lower than it had been two hours ago. “Hey look at that, Howard, you’re getting cool.” 

It wasn’t by much. A degree or so, but in Vince’s book that was a win. 

“How cool?” Howard asks around the ice cube he has popped into his mouth. 

“Not quite as cool as me, but enough that I’d probably be seen with you in public.” Howard only rolls his eyes at this, crunches the ice cube in his mouth. “How’s that working?” 

“Amazing.” Howard replies, already slipping a second into his mouth. “Doesn’t feel like I’m going to be sick again.” 

“Alright, don’t sound so surprised.” Though, Vince was admittedly shocked when he had come up with the ice idea. He feels like he remembers reading about it somewhere, or maybe it was something Howard had told him. Either way, he’d afforded himself a fist pump and a mental pat on the back. “I know things.” 

“Yeah but the things you know normally involve glitter and sweets.” Howard points out. 

“Both very important parts of life Howard,” Vince chastises. He rises to his feet and starts tugging at Howard’s sheet to get it off him. “If I didn’t know about glitter and sweets then there'd be no fun in this friendship.” 

“I can be fun.” He huffs, moving obediently where Vince encourages him into a sitting position. 

“What, like the time you organised an in depth discussion group about the formative works of early bebop?” Vince raises his eyebrows. “Yeah. You’re a hoot.” 

Howard clearly doesn’t have a response to that, his face turns sour as he sucks on his ice cube. 

Vince goes to Howard’s dresser and digs around for some fresh clothes, actual pyjamas this time rather than the vest and pants he’s been making use of so far. “You feeling any better than before?” 

Howard bobs his head in a nod. “A bit.” He answers. “Not as swishy.” 

“Good.” Vince holds up the striped pyjama set (or what used to be a set, Vince pinched the bottoms off him back at the zoo, so now it’s just the top with some bottoms that bore enough resemblance to the pattern that they call them a set) “Fancy a change of scenery?” 

Howard manages the closest thing to a grin Vince has seen since walking into the shop Monday morning. 

_15\. You see the curtains draped in front of me._   
_You see the sun come up alone._   
_You want to show me just what you can see._

As he finds out when Vince helps him into some fresh clothes and out into the living room, it’s been almost exactly twenty four hours since Howard had woken up with a blinding headache and forced himself into work. 

And he has never been more in awe of his best friend. 

Which is a big deal, considering Vince is the kind of being that everyone was constantly in awe of, all of the time. What with the way he seemed to exist in a state of contradiction - the prettiest man you’ll ever meet. The softest smile plastered on the sharpest features. The output of a complete innocent and yet tainted with something just this side of dangerous. 

How he seemed completely aloof and carefree and yet where it mattered, right now, he was a lighthouse in the middle of Howard's stormy sea. Dependable. Responsible. Luring him home safely. 

The truth of it was, Vince was very good at taking care of Howard when he needed to. 

The early morning light was filtering through the closed blinds while Vince gently deposited him on the sofa. It’s not even that bright but it still makes him squint his eyes against it. The headache has lingered throughout his sickness; still stabbing away in his temples, and it doesn’t feel like it was going anywhere fast.

Thankfully the nausea was passing. He still felt a bit swishy in his stomach, like any moment he might have to reach for that mop bucket, but Vince’s ice cube idea had been a stroke of pure genius. It was quenching his thirst without feeling like he was overloading him with liquid to the point his body wanted to eject it. 

The kid was full of bright ideas sometimes. 

Only sometimes. 

“Vince?” He asks carefully, voice rasping. His throat was raw from lack of fluids and vomiting combined. Vince hums, a bit distracted by where he is fiddling with what looks like a trap straight out of a cartoon. Plastic storage box (that had once held their mixed collection of records - those now stacked precariously by the television) propped up with a wooden spoon and tied with string. “Why does our flat look like a small tornado has passed through?” 

This does make Vince lookup, his eyes wide and startled. It’s almost like he hadn’t thought Howard would notice anything different. It really is a testament to how he was still the ditsy flatmate he liked to call a friend, despite having his moments of genius. 

And look, Howard knows better than anyone that Vince is a messy person, but not like this. Vince’s mess is born from laziness most of the time. It’s the kind of mess that is left behind rather than intentionally created. 

He’ll easily leave a stack of dishes by the sink rather than wash them, or forget to put his clothes back after trying on three hundred outfit combinations. 

Looking around their living room, though, is like looking at the back end of a search and rescue mission. There’s little to no order to the way things are upturned and moved about. Things displaced in what seems like a thoughtless manner. 

There appears to be a rather crude attempt at tidying done in the aftermath of the initial chaos. But it’s not Howard's level of cleanliness. He can read the way the cushions have been put back incorrectly, or the way things are not in their proper place, like he can read a book. “What’s going on?” 

“Nothing.” Vince replies easily. He’s shifted his body in front of his strange contraption and darts his gaze around the mess nonchalantly. “It’s fine.” 

“What’s fine.” 

“This.” Vince gestures around them. “This is all fine.” 

“This.” Howard copies the gesture, though with a lot less flair. “Looks like you’re up to something.” 

“Alright, captain paranoia.” Vince smirks over at him, on the surface confident and uncaring, but Howard can see the underlying anxiety. “I lost my necklace-” 

“Which one?” 

“The one with the rocket on it,” His fingers dance over the hollow of his throat as if he can feel the phantom of it. “I thought I could find it in here.” 

“You were wearing that on Saturday.” Howard remembers, it had been part of the overall ensemble that had convinced the glitter men of Vince’s kinship. “Was it not in Naboo’s room?” 

“Nah, I checked.” 

“Hmm,” Howard frowns. He remembers there being some other things going astray, somewhere in his memory of being in the shop yesterday (was it only yesterday it feels like over a week ago) things missing from the stockroom. “Didn’t find it in here then?” 

Vince shakes his head, a thoughtful purse of his lips. Absently his fingers have started fiddling with a discarded bracelet inside his makeshift trap. Howard hasn’t really got the energy to even start getting an explanation for that. So he just doesn’t ask. If it’s important he’ll find out in good time. 

“I’ll put something on the telly for you.” Vince says then. He springs to his feet and fishes the TV remote out from under a shoddily organised pile of fabrics. “Think there’s some horrifically boring documentary about owls on later,” And Howard's smirks at the kind nature of his friend. Vince will not tolerate documentaries _unless_ there’s animals involved. At which point he will still mutter about how dull they are, but takes great pleasure in watching any fluffy creature frolicking about. “If you stay awake long enough to see it.” 

“I’ve slept enough for a lifetime, Vince,” Howard says. “I’ll be awake.” 

He can’t say the same for his friend. Who clicks onto any random channel and then prances off to the kitchen to refill Howard’s glass of ice. He looks a bit frazzled. 

Vince is normally so charged with energy. Enough that it’s not unusual for the man to pull all nighters and only stumble into bed as Howard is getting out of his, but that does mean it’s always quite obvious when he gets down to the dregs of his battery life. 

Right now he’s coasting, on a slow decline into complete exhaustion. 

“Will you sit down?” He snaps, although marginally softer than his usual gripes sound. “You’re making me knackered just looking at you.” 

“You sure that isn’t just your weird sickness?” Vince asks, still bustling about around them. Though he does disappear into their room for a few minutes, shortly after returning with a blanket of his own. A fluffy pink and purple thing he has claimed to have owned since childhood. “But if you insist.” 

Howard still has Vince’s thin sheet wrapped around him, and he tugs it closer about his person when Vince chooses to settle on the sofa beside him rather than on the armchair further away from him. 

“You’ll get sick.” He warns, though it does nothing more than make Vince shrug. 

“If I was gonna catch it I probably already have,” He reasons. “From the cuddling and that.” 

It’s the first time either of them have mentioned it, and Howard finds himself tensing inexplicably. Perhaps he’s waiting for it to be twisted into a jab against him. A way for Vince to laugh at him with all of his trendy mates. Pathetic old Howard desperate for affection. All because he dared to want, and accept without arguments, a bit of affection from his friend. The kind of affection that petered off between them years ago. 

It doesn’t come. Vince is staring resolutely ahead at whatever is on the television. Howard finds his eyes straying to his satchel, still hanging untouched on the bannister. Remembers the little gift wrapped box tucked inside,a perceived patch up for some potential misstep in their friendship from months ago. 

He briefly considers whipping it out now. Now was a good time as any, surely? He was awake and coherent. Though, in the end he’s concerned it’s going to come across as an awkward attempt at thanking Vince for his care. And there’d be questions. A discussion. Some degree of emotional outpouring that he just isn’t mentally prepared for. So instead he leaves it. Turns to the television and they sit in companionable silence. 

Silence never lasts long between them. "Vince?" 

"What?" Vince has whipped around to watch him, eyes wide and terrified like a deer facing off a truck. 

"About the um," The knocking in his chest seems to get worse with every word. He clears his throat to help. "About in the bed, with the-" 

Vince relaxes, bites his lip to keep from grinning. "The cuddling?" 

Hearing it again makes his face flush. "Yes. That." He's not sure what he's trying to say. Thank you, maybe? For letting him have what he needed without making fun of him. No that's not it. Could they do it again? Not the initial thought but now that it’s entered his mind he finds that perhaps that is what he wants, yes. "I just wanted to say," God what _did_ he want to say. 

"'s okay, Howard." Vince utters, soft like a freshly washed sheet. "I know."

_Does he?_ Howard wonders. But that gaze is so sure, his smile so confident. Howard finds he believes he does. _Even when all his words are jumbled, Vince always understands him._

He supposes it wasn't a thank you or a request he was trying to force out after all, it was an assurance that no matter how he acts - he does need Vince. He always will. 

"'Sides," Vince announces cheerfully. Utilising his talent for moving the topic along. "You were having a right ol’ punch up with something in your sleep, you know. Nearly took my head off." 

Howard remembers that dream well. Shudders at the projected image of Vince, weak and helpless in the arms of a killer. Howard pleading for his life. 

Vince must notice his reaction. "Wanna talk about it?" he asks. Though it's clear he already knows the answer. 

"No." Howard looks back towards the television. "Just a stupid dream."

Vince is still looking at him, he can feel it. Blue eyes wide and worried lingering on the side of his face long enough to get Howard's back up. He damn near snaps at him to find something else to stare at. But then he turns his face away on his own, facing the TV again. Tugging the fluffy blanket up to his chin and cooing, "Oh Howard look it's Barn Owls!" 

And that's how they remain. Snuggled on their respective sides of the sofa, television providing the only noise in the room. 

It takes all of ten minutes before Vince sags like a doll, fast asleep under his blanket. 

Howard finds him far more interesting than any documentary.

_16\. Won't you stop teasing me_   
_Won't you take it easy_   
_Tell me 'cause I'd like to know_

Vince is pulled slowly into consciousness by the sense that something isn’t quite right. 

It’s usually a slow process, Vince waking up, it takes him a few minutes to even force his eyes open because he likes to try and recapture the sleep that has so often been wrongfully stolen from him. And even then, he’ll lay prone in his bed for ages just staring at the ceiling while his brain secretary tries desperately to find the on switch for his energy. Once he's flipped though, he sets off like a wind up toy. 

It's different when he’s supposed to be responsible for someone else. Waking up becomes a snap and a jump that forces him to bolt upright and leaves his head spinning with whiplash. A process made even faster when his eyes come to rest on the worryingly empty side of the sofa. 

Howard’s gone. 

“Howard?” He calls into the flat, a moment of frantic uncertainty overcoming him. What if he has severely underestimated this tiny alien thief and it had somehow, for some reason, made off with his defenseless best friend. 

“Howard!” He tries again, this time jostling himself to his feet. He almost trips over the blanket that has become cocooned around him but that doesn’t slow his progress. 

After getting no reply he hurries his way down the hall to the bedroom, shoving the door open and peeking into the empty room. Mild concern starts to peak into actual fear, right up until he turns and notices that the bathroom door is firmly shut. Ambient sounds drift from the other side and inform him that someone is locked in there. 

He sags against said door with relief. Pressing his forehead to the cool wood and allowing the adrenaline to slowly sleep from him. Then, he knocks once. “Howard, you in there?” 

Most people would perhaps worry about being overbearing, but Vince Noir has spent his whole life being a needy person as if in preparation for this exact situation. So when Howard swings the door open (weakly) and glares at him (also weakly) he can only find in himself to grin back. “What do you want?” 

“Just checking you weren’t dead.” Vince pipes up cheerfully. 

“I’m fine.” Howard loses some of his salty tone and looks sheepishly over his shoulder. He’s abandoned the sheet Vince had given him, and is instead standing wobbly in only his pyjamas. “I was going to take a shower, if that’s alright with you. I’m all sorts of disgusting.” 

This Vince can at least sympathise with. Over 24 hours of fever must leave people feeling a bit unsavoury. “Yeah, fine.” Howard goes to close the door again but Vince stops him. “Hang on, Hasty McAdams, I’ll help.” 

“I don’t need help showering, Vince.” Howard blushes just at the thought of it. 

Vince snorts. “No, not that.” He pushes his way into the bathroom and promptly backs Howard up until he is sat on the toilet. “You still look like you’re going to keel over, you daft giraffe. You probably won’t be able to stand in a shower at all.” 

Howard is looking up at him again with narrowed eyes - the same way he’d looked at him when he’d suggested the ice cubes. This time Vince thinks he can decipher it, a cross between confusion and admiration. 

Like it’s a constant surprise to him how well Vince can be a caretaker. That Vince _wants_ to be his caretaker.

“And,” Vince continues, pretends not to notice the look. Busies himself turning their taps on. “I haven’t got my thermometer but I bet you’re still feverish, so you’re best only having lukewarm water otherwise you’re gonna send your body into all sorts of mess with the temperature.” 

“You’re…” Howard never finishes that sentiment. Vince turns to look at him, teeth caught on his bottom lip at the sheer disbelief in Howard’s voice. But he soon clears his throat and takes a completely different conversational route. “Nice sleep, then?” 

It’s Vince’s turn to blush. “Yeah, sorry about that. Guess I was a bit knackered after all.” 

Howard smiles at him, features softening. “It’s alright. I watched that thing about owls, anyway, it was fascinating.” 

Vince can’t help himself but to roll his eyes at that, but it is a fond thing. “I bet it was.” He teases, glad Howard is getting back to himself a little. 

“You’d probably benefit from watching a few more programmes like that, you know.” 

“What for?” Vince asks, semi serious. “I learnt everything I need to know about animals from the zoo.” 

It’s Howard’s turn to snicker at him. “What, like which flavour crisps the Capybaras prefer? Or how the bobcats like their fur styled?” 

“You’re just jealous they never let you near ‘em with the scissors.” Vince shoots back. He trails his fingers in the water to make sure the temperature is right. “Think this is about done for you.” He mutters, eager to get back out into the flat and check for their little mouse creature. 

Howard nods at him thankfully, darts his gaze to his feet in the wake of the silence that they’re left in. 

“We’ll try some food after, yeah?” He asks, and this time Howard nods enthusiastically at the suggestion. 

“Well, bugger off then.” Howard jokes lightly, but it does motivate Vince into action and send him trailing from the room. 

Howard clicks the door shut behind him and Vince sags against the wall. The cocktail of relief and adrenaline still surges through his veins. He tries not to look too hard at how utterly panicked he’d been to find Howard gone from his side, it had all worked out in the end. Though it does bring the importance of catching their mouse to the forefront of his mind. 

He takes a moment to realign his thoughts, jumbled as they are this soon after he’s just woken up and further mixed up by affection from Howard and then pushes himself from the wall. 

He takes care of some basic chores first - delaying the inevitable - going to the bedroom straight away. He channels his inner domestic housewife (aka his inner Howard Moon) and strips the sheets from his friend's bed, quickly remaking it with something fresh. Gathers them and any abandoned clothes and carts them through to the washing machine. 

After that he gives the kitchenette a bit of a once over. Brushes a cloth over their counters and stacks their dishes in a more orderly fashion (he isn’t going to wash them, don’t be daft). When nothing else comes to mind, he stuffs a few fizzy colour bottles into his mouth and bites the bullet. He can’t put it off any longer; strides to the living room with the intention of checking on his trap. 

It failed. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d seen that coming. 

The bracelet is gone, which is something, but the box remained propped where it was on the wooden spoon as if nothing had ever happened. Hadn’t trapped the creature, Vince feels the weight of that failure swing into his chest like a pendulum. 

“Smarter than I first thought.” He huffs at the unseen entity he knows is hiding somewhere. 

But it’s okay. It isn’t the end of the world (just yet) and he crouches to the floor to peer under the sofa like he might find the thing hiding there waiting for him. Making sure to raise his voice just a little so that it would hear him, “I will get you, you tiny jerkoff.” 

He just needed a new approach. Where was the plan pony when you needed him most. 

_17\. When my head is aching in GMT_   
_And I don't care why this apartment's so ice cold_   
_Let London try, it'll never swallow me whole_

A bath had indeed proved to be a much better idea than a shower, Howard realised as he sank into the lukewarm water. 

Yet another instance in the alarming trend of Vince actually knowing things. 

It was refreshing, for a start. The water soothing his still feverish skin and helping to cool him down. Then there was the obvious opportunity to gently wash the grime from his skin and dribble water through his curls. A whole day lost to the throes of illness had left him feeling a bit unsavoury to say the least. 

It’s also just relaxing. 

Howard has always favoured a bath (as has Vince given the number of amenities he keeps lying around for such an occasion - bubbles and salts and scents) enjoys nothing more than retiring into the warm water with a book and some soft jazz playing in the background. 

He tips his head back against the towel under his neck and closes his eyes - not intending to sleep but just to decompress - there is a lot going on in his head at the moment and the silence is useful for cataloguing it. 

Everything he’d done last time he had been awake was hovering before him like a dream. The memory soft around the edges but stark in it’s reimagining. It was like trying to remember something you did while drunk, blurry and mostly snatched from fragments. 

The memory of pale skin and pointed features resting in the palm of his hand is clear to him though. The look in Vince’s shiny blue eyes - unable to process what was happening. He remembers breathing words he had managed to keep to himself for almost a decade. 

_“I think you’re beautiful.”_

What a prized tit. 

Vince hadn’t said anything. Not a thing. He’d looked at him so earnestly that Howard hadn’t been able to look back because Vince always has something to say - there are precious few things on this planet that make Vince speechless and one of them is fear. So Howard had done what he does best, he had shut himself off conversationally and hoped the matter wouldn’t be mentioned again. 

Thankfully it hadn’t. Yet. If he knows anything, he knows Vince will be thinking about it too. It’s just a matter of time before it comes up. 

Whether it gets used against him as a joke is yet to be seen, but they will burn that bridge when they come to it. And burn it they will, because Howard isn’t sure he’ll survive when the last nail is put into the coffin of this friendship. 

He can cope with rejection, but he can’t with humiliation. Not on this front. 

He thinks about the gift he has in his satchel again. About how a few days ago that had seemed like a simple solution to this, their problem. Wonders if it will still prove helpful now that he’s gone and ruined it all with his traitorous confessions. 

The water is getting cold around him, and still being run down as he is, he is concerned about falling asleep here. So he pulls the plug, swashes his hair from his face and starts the careful process of extracting himself from the water. 

He feels like a fresh new person when he leverages himself from the bath and redresses. 

It’s a mostly steady process of shuffling through to the bedroom in order to grab his robe. And he’s greeted by the sight of a freshly made bed. It’s at this point he forgets the gift in his bag and decides he’s going to buy Vince a very pretty scarf as well when this is all over. Possibly two. 

Vince’s hairbrush is borrowed (since Howard’s very nice comb still appears to be missing) to attempt to tame his hair into some form of tidy, he even feels awake enough to debate giving himself a shave. 

He’s in the process of rooting through his dresser in search of some real clothes, it might be time to get dressed properly he thinks, when he hears a startling crash from the kitchen. 

As fast as he can manage, which still isn’t all that fast given the weakness he has yet to shake, he hurries to the source of the noise and finds Vince. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, eyes downcast. His fingers knotted in the hair at the nape of his neck and tugging at the strands in a way Howard recognised as frustration. His features are screwed up as if he was trying to solve a complicated puzzle. He finds his eyes darting over to one of their smaller plates, laying cracked on the kitchen floor and things start to slot into place. 

“Hey, little man.” Howard reaches out with one shaking hand, hoping to comfort his friend’s agitation. “What’s the matter?” 

Vince doesn’t shake him off at least. Let’s the hand come to rest on his shoulder. “I can’t find the butter knife.” He sighs. 

It seems like a bit of an overreaction in Howard’s opinion. Chucking crockery about because you can’t find a butter knife? Definitely not how he’d be dealing with the problem. But he’s no desire to point that out when Vince is clearly still riled up from whatever has gotten on his nerves; his eyes narrowed, line of his jaw set in annoyance. “It’s not in the drawer?” He asks instead. 

Vince shakes his head. “This is taking the piss now.” He seethes.

Howard (thankfully) almost never sees Vince truly angry, it’s just not really an emotion the other man ever finds himself using. He’s a bit taken aback by the sight. How his free fingers clench and release by his side while the other digits are still tugging hard enough at his hair to make even Howard wince. He’s not sure how to bring Vince back from this - tantrums he can manage. Tantrums are a fleeting and brisk expression of annoyance. Real deep seated anger? He’s not sure what angle to come at that from. 

Finding out the problem seems as good a place as any to start. “What is, what’s going on?” 

Vince looks at him for the first time since he entered the room. He looks conflicted, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he gnaws on it - another nervous habit. The hot irritation that had been pouring off him in waves suddenly slows to a stop. Vince deflates under Howard’s questioning gaze. His shoulders drop with the heavy sigh he gives as if all the negative energy was expelled from his airways.

“Things are being nicked from us.” He admits, he looks like a naughty school child admitting to having bitten their friend. All guilt and apology rolled into one. 

Howard is ashamed to admit that he doesn’t quite grasp the meaning of this on the first try, as preoccupied as he is with Vince’s drastic change in mood. “What?” 

“There’s something in the flat.” Vince reiterates, eyes on his feet. “And it’s stealing our stuff.” 

It takes a second, but two and two finally make four and Howard fully processes what Vince means. Something in the flat being a creature of some description and stealing their stuff meaning, anything he’s noticed missing is definitely not just lost but _stolen._

He could be mad. Supposes that’s exactly what Vince is waiting for with the way he kicks his feet against the floor and won’t look up at him. What he settles on instead is, “As long as it’s not another drug addicted fox, I think we can handle it.” It manages to pull a small grin from Vince’s guilty face. He agrees with a small laugh and Howard gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze. 

“You’re not handling anything.” Vince says suddenly, snapping back into his caretaker role, seemingly embarrassed by his momentary lapse. “Not until you’re on the mend.” 

Howard rolls his eyes. “I am, Vince!” He cries, throat hoarse and not at all supporting his argument with how strained he sounds. “Look at me, standing all by myself, mending.” 

Vince shakes his head at him, reaches across their counter top and hands him a single slice of toast with no butter on it. “Nibble on that, you bumbaclart. If you can keep it down then we’ll talk.”

Howard has never passive aggressively nibbled on anything before, but there’s always room for firsts. 

_18\. Well try a little harder,_   
_To have no sense and emptiness_

Vince keeps a close eye on Howard as he makes slow progress through his toast while he picks up the resulting mess of his minor tantrum, tossing the shards of the plate into their rubbish bin. 

He hadn’t meant to lose it. It wasn’t that big of a deal, even he could see that - just a butter knife. If anything it was so far the most inconsequential thing that this creature had taken from them. Yet it was the straw that broke the camel's back in terms of Vince’s tolerance. The one stupid thing that got in the way of him looking after Howard, that's all it took. 

Still. On the upside, it was nice to finally not be the only one in the know. Granted he's hesitant to let Howard get involved in alien catching, what with him still looking like death warmed over, but just being able to bounce ideas off someone will help. Turns out he isn't as successful as a one piece as he'd like. 

Speaking of his other half, Howard has made it through more of the toast than Vince initially thought he would (glaring the whole time) before he drops it into the bin and declares he has had more than enough. 

"Still feeling alright?" Vince asks, disregarding the bristly nature of Howard’s actions. 

To his surprise though, Howard is at least honest with him. “Still a tad nauseous. Don’t think I’m going to be sick imminently, though.” 

“Alright.” Vince nods his head, affords Howard a proud smile. Then he waves the thermometer at him, to which the other man heaves a deep sigh. “Look, I’ll let you do it if it bothers you, but I’d like to know where you are.” 

“To cool for you.” Howard mutters back petulantly, but he does hold out his hand to snatch the device. After a moment it beeps and Howard actually manages to grin at him. “37.8, Ha!” He looks triumphant. “That’s practically normal.” 

“Yeah, alright, don’t get over excited.” He might just reach out and grab the thermometer for himself, looking over the digits as they declare their diagnosis. “You’re fine for now but it could come back.” 

“Listening to you be so serious is gonna make me ill again.” Howard insists. “Are you going to tell me what’s happening now?” 

Vince has half a mind to say no just for that remark but he can’t bring himself to. “Remember that box I got in the glitter place?” 

“The one you couldn’t open?” 

Vince rolls his eyes, of course that would be the part he focused on. “Yeah, that one.” He casts a look over the flat so he doesn’t have to look at his friend while he admits his own fault. “Well, I think it had something in it, and now it’s running about the flat.” 

Howard doesn’t say anything, just continues looking at him earnestly, a silent encouragement to keep talking. 

“My necklace is gone, and some other things. Things from the shop, things from the flat - cutlery apparently.” He sighs heavily, gazes at his feet. “I saw it before, sort of. I was on the phone and it tried to nick off with my old mirror ball scraps, and then-” He flails his hands, mimes an explosion. “Gone.” 

“So you didn't actually see it?” 

Vince shakes his head. “No. Just saw it go.” 

Howard purses his lips in that way he does when he’s biting back commentary. Vince knows it sounds insane, but insane is what they do. It’s their bread and butter. A lifestyle at this point. Even if Howard believes him he knows it isn’t exactly a lot to go on, given they don't actually know what they’re looking for. 

“I’ve been trying to find it while you’ve been sleeping.” Vince admits, hopes that makes up for his failing so far. 

Howard’s eyes suddenly flash with recognition. “Is that what you were doing before? With the storage box and the spoon?” 

“Yeah,” Vince inexplicably feels himself blushing. “Used my bracelet as bait but the little twat is smart; managed to nick it without getting caught.” 

Howard sips at the water Vince has slid over to him and smirks around his mouthful. “Do you think that’s perhaps because you didn’t set it up right?” 

Frowning, Vince peeks over at the still standing trap and realises that yes, Howard is probably right. Now that he thinks about it, this is the sort of construction he’d only ever seen at work in cartoons and even then only when someone was present to pull the string and dislodge the item propping the box up. Therefore bringing it down on top of the intended target and trapping it… and he’s been in the bedroom with Howard. “Shut up!” he finds himself grumbling. “I was doing my best.” 

Hearing Howard chuckle means he can’t be mad for too long though. He’s always enjoyed Howard’s laugh, but especially in this instance. It’s not a breathy painful noise anymore; it’s returning to a full deep laughter that Vince is more than familiar with. 

“Why don’t we start at the beginning, then.” Howard suggests. “What’s gone missing besides some of your jewelry?” 

Vince takes a second to think and then promptly lists what he remembers. “That bookmark you brought back from Denmark, um… some stuff from the shop. Stuff you took down there, like the jazz pencil cases and that grimy pocket watch you reckon is an antique - I think, but it could just be my bad stocktaking.” He pauses enough for Howard to bark a laugh there. “Just random things.” 

Howard hums in thought, a sound that makes him scrunch his nose up in discomfort and then sputter some coughs. Without thinking Vince pulls some throat lozenges from his back pocket and hands them to Howard. He takes a moment to look surprised before he slips one in his mouth. 

“And you think it’s come from the box?” 

Vince nods his head once more. “Yeah. I haven’t been able to find it since I saw the thing disappear. It was like it was moving itself around while I wasn’t looking and now it’s just gone.” 

“Well.” Howard sighs around his sweet. “We’ve gotten out of stranger situations with less to go on.” He reassures. “Maybe Naboo-” 

“We’re not calling Naboo.” Vince says immediately. Then pauses. “Not yet, anyway.” 

Startled by his insistence, Howard just blinks at him. “I was going to say Naboo might have a book or something that can help.” 

“Oh right,” A slow smile spreads on Vince’s face. “Genius, let’s go.” 

Vince hovers, in case he needs to help Howard up, but he seems to be getting stronger by the minute because he gets to his feet okay and shuffles off down the corridor in front of Vince to Naboo’s bedroom. 

_19\. You looked back at me once_   
_But I looked back two times_

One might think that living in close quarters with a shaman would afford someone a new level of knowledge they’d have no hope of securing otherwise. The things they must have seen and partaken in would imbue them with skills that meant any crisis could be quickly dealt with quickly and efficiently. 

Unless those someones were Howard and Vince, in which case, the fact they get into magical trouble every other week did them no favours and taught them no lessons whatsoever. 

Naturally the first thing they gravitate towards is the bookshelf. Books are familiar (at least they are to Howard) and therefore a lot more likely to give them some answers. Certainly a lot less daunting than the jenga tower of scrolls on the side table or the shoebox full of crumpled post notes and note cards on his dresser. 

“You think there’ll be something in there?” Vince asks him as he looks over the titles thoughtfully. So far nothing is sticking out as obviously helpful. 

All he can offer is a shrug. “Worth a try, I suppose.” 

Vince seems to trust his judgement enough to take whatever books Howard hands him from the shelves - which is not as many as he’d like but he only picks up ones with titles he can vaguely understand - and retreats to make himself comfortable on Naboo’s bedroom floor. 

Howard grabs a stack of his own; perches on the end of the shaman’s bed and gets to work

It doesn’t take long for him to realise they may be on a bit of a hopeless mission. He skims through the indexes of whatever books have them, looks for any mention of the mirror, or shiny people, or alien mice. He even looks at each mention of boxes gifted to travelers but all he can find is references to boxes made from anything _but_ metal. Wooden ones, gold ones, even ones made of abstract concepts like hope or fear. 

No metal ones. 

He peeks down at where Vince is sitting, intending to check on his progress and finds him cross legged with several books open around him. There’s something incredibly heartwarming about the sight. He has one hand combing through the plush fabric of the rug like a child might pet a dog, while the other turns discoloured pages. 

His features are pinched in concentration, lips moving as he no doubt tries to piece together the words he’s reading. Vince’s strong suit isn’t the written word but he tries, and Howard finds himself smiling down at him where he sits for the effort. 

Having finished flipping through his own books, and nothing to show for it, Howard reluctantly heads for the more disorganised section of Naboo’s documentation. Grabs at the shoebox of note cards first - Vince looks up at him with a gentle smile. “Nothing in your books then?” 

“Not that I could see.” He sighs, gives the box a shake. “Knowing our luck the answers are going to be somewhere in this mess.” He settles on the bed once more, starts unpacking crumpled bits of paper and trying to make sense of them. “Never took Naboo to be this unorganised.” 

“Really? Do we live with the same bloke?” Vince snorts, draws his fingers gently over a page. “The same one that can never remember what day it is because he’s higher than a helium parrot?” 

Howard cocks his head to the side. “Fair point.” 

They lapse back into silence again. The only sound paper rustling and pages turning. Vince finally makes it through one book and begins on another, Howard reads endless notes on unicorns, mermen, yetis, genies, there’s even scribbled notes in here in reference to them but he can’t even make sense of those (what does _‘Vince aura changed; research fix?’_ or _‘Howard solution: truth potion_ ’ even _mean_ ) and none of it relates back to the mirror world or the stainless steel box. 

They’ve been at it for the best part of an hour when Vince pushes another book away from him in barely concealed frustration. 

“No wonder we always rely on Naboo to help us,” Vince sighs heavily. Howard can see the irritation flashing in his friends' eyes. “It’s so dull.” 

And that’s the thing. They never do this bit, Naboo _always_ does this bit, mainly because he crams so much knowledge into his tiny little head that he almost always knows where to look immediately. That and the fact he can probably read all this ancient language stuff is a big help.

“This is hopeless Howard,” Vince whines. “We can’t even understand any of it.” 

Howard sighs heavily. “Well, that’s not entirely true.”

“What?” Vince looks him up and down like he’s gone insane. “What are you on about?”

“Some of it is in English, Vince.” He reminds him. 

Glaring, the other man folds his arms over his chest in a classic huff. “Yeah, I can see that. But it’s still all…” He waves a hand around rather than find a word to explain what he means. 

Howard gingerly moves himself to the floor next to Vince. “Nothing in the books then?” 

Vince shakes his head, frustration being replaced with something like shame. “No. Nothing I can find about mirrors or glitter people or anything… Sorry.” 

“It’s alright, not like I’ve found much either.” 

“No I mean…” Vince huffs, the annoyance redirecting to be directed towards himself. He’s always struggled with being sincere. The closest he usually gets finds him still speaking in elaborate fashion metaphors and cheeky sarcasm. “I’m sorry for all of it. I brought it here, Howard. I made us go in the first place, I shouldn’t have. I-” He interrupts himself with a little grunt of indignation. “I’m just sorry, alright?” 

Howard isn’t sure if it’s his lingering fever or genuine emotion that leaves his head spinning. Either way he gazes at Vince with a soft smile. “It’s alright, Vince. I didn’t have to follow you, did I?” Still sulking at himself, Vince nods his head minutely. “ _And_ there are plenty of worse things you could have fetched home.” 

He bumps his shoulder against Vince’s in good humour, forcing a small laugh from him. “I suppose.” 

Comforted, Vince seems to shake off his negative mood almost instantly and starts to press himself to his feet. “C’mon you, we’ve been at this for ages and I think you need to lie down again.” 

“I’m not a baby, Vince.” He shoots back. “I’d tell you if I was tired.” 

“Come off it, Howard,” Vince snorts ungracefully, hands on his hips as he stands over Howard. “I can see your tiny eyes drooping. Dead on your feet you are, time for a sleepy.” 

“It’s only noon!” 

“Afternoon nap, then,” Vince reaches out, seemingly more confident that his contact won’t be shrugged off so easily at the moment. 

Howard frowns at him, but supposes while in nurse mode Vince has a way of seeing right through him. He allows himself to be helped up, pulls his dressing gown tight around himself. “Can I at least stay out here?” 

Vince's smirk morphs into something softer, perhaps recognising he was getting bored and lonely in the bedroom by himself. He nods. “Alright, you can kip on the sofa.” 

“What’re you gonna do?” 

Vince looks a little determined. Then, with a set of his shoulders, says, “I’m gonna call Naboo.” 

_20\. Let the music smother me_   
_Whole weekend recovery_   
_Dancing on a Friday night_

Naboo was having the worst time of his life - is what he would insist any time anyone inquired about it. 

In the safety of his own head though, where no one would ask, this whole experience was easily going to be ranked in his top ten funniest things he’s ever been witness to. 

Dennis’ plea of sobriety lasted a grand total of an hour. He subsequently spent the first night passed out cold while Kirk and Bollo put good use to some permanent markers (he did not ask where they got _those_ from) and their collective imaginations. 

The team building aspect of it _was_ going well, he supposed. Evidence of that lay in the fact Tony and Saboo had quickly put their bickering behind them when they rediscovered their joint love of getting off their faces bitching about Dennis behind his back. By day two they’d been inseparable, and Tony had never looked as pleased as he had while nestled in his little papoose offering shot after shot of tequila over Saboo’s shoulder. 

It was great, don’t get him wrong, but by day four he was beginning to wish this trip was considerably shorter than the week long fest it was supposed to be. 

And it only had a little to do with what he’d left behind. 

He had been away from the flat for days and he hadn’t had a phone call yet. Which is almost certainly a good thing, he tells himself. His hopeless tenants were perhaps _finally_ listening to him. They hadn’t gotten themselves and the shop in trouble - which again, can _only be_ a good thing. But it doesn't _feel_ like a good thing. 

Naboo does a brilliant job of pretending to be disconnected from the world around him. Unaffected and disinterested. Unless it was vague annoyance he made a point to not engage in anything in any distinct way. 

That being said, he could pretend all day long that Howard and Vince annoyed him with their antics (because they did just a bit) but by now it had become such a routine that he was almost _disappointed_ . He was actually _more_ irked that they hadn't tripped headfirst into mischief immediately and rang him to sort it out. 

That's how it worked. He'd go away, they'd get into his things, all hell would break loose, they'd call Naboo and he’d begrudgingly fix it. It was at the point of familiarity that he had, dare he say, started to enjoy the whole process. A tiny bit. Playing the hero every week certainly did wonders for his ego, that’s for sure. 

Okay maybe he enjoyed it a lot. Needed it, even. 

Because other than Dennis being strangely sweet on him, he had nothing here at the council. As far as those ballbags were concerned he was still a newbie. They all looked at him and saw _‘baby faced Naboo’_ ; young with still so much to learn. He couldn't impress these guys anymore than he could scrape some respect from them. Honestly if the head shaman wasn't _constantly_ vouching for him he'd probably have been kicked out centuries ago. 

But Howard and Vince? He barely needed to lift a finger in order to impress them. They knew he was capable of great things (even if he very rarely did anything that constitutes great). It was the kind of validation he wouldn't turn his nose up at, thank you very much. 

Plus Vince was pretty cool. For a human, Naboo genuinely found him fun to be around. 

He couldn’t exactly say the same for Howard. But they sort of came as a package deal - so he stays too. Which isn't always a bad thing. He has to hand it to the man, not a lot of cleaning or cooking or any of that important domestic stuff would ever get done if he wasn't around. He had his uses. 

It was a shame all that potential was drowned out by such an aura of pessimism that it gave Naboo a migraine to be in a room with him for an extended period of time. At least Vince's was all rainbows and glitter - or it had been until recently. Now the pair of them slouched about with a muddy grey cloud swallowing them both. 

Naboo remembers the zoo times fondly. Even Howard's aura had been bright there, offset by Vince's as it was. It was still a mess, but it was a lot like how he remembered the sunset on Xooberon. Navy's and dull greens mixed up with the odd splash of pink or yellow like flashing stars. It was as close to a reminder of home as he’d ever gotten. 

Opposite to that was Vince. His energy was like being in a nightclub when they’d first met. Flashing neon, switching and blending in a strobe show depending on how quickly he flitted from mood to mood - and mixed in were lightning strikes of browns and deep blues that Vince wouldn’t have been seen dead harbouring. 

No matter what either of them said, they were part of each other. A pair that shouldn't be separated. Naboo had never seen anything like it before. On some level that was probably what prompted him to hang around them so much at first; a desperate need to understand why two people _so different_ seemed to coexist on a cosmic level. That they transcended physical and quite literally blended was nothing short of fascinating. 

It hadn’t been the same lately. The pair had started on a decline some time ago that, he feared, was about to become irreparable. 

Maybe that’s why he was so anxious about the lack of a call. If they weren’t taking every opportunity to get into trouble then was there any hope for their relationship at all? Vince wouldn’t cope if that happened, he’d seen evidence enough of that the two weeks Howard had been gone. And as much as he pretends to hate Howard, the kind of sadness that would no doubt overcome him if Vince left his life was something he wouldn’t wish on anyone. 

It means when his phone actually rings midway through whatever day they are in now (as if he has the mental capacity left to track his days) he is flooded with such relief that he scrambles across a table to answer it; sends two bongs and a turban full of Sambuca crashing to the floor - much to the whole group's annoyance. 

“What do you want?” He huffs, hoping the annoyance he’s forcing comes across convincingly. 

“Hey Naboo,” Vince chirps down the line. “How's the team building?” 

“Fine.” He’s not sure why either of them play this game anymore, but it’s as much part of the routine as the actual saving the day is - so he goes along begrudgingly. “Something wrong? How’s the shop?” 

“It’s great.” Vince answers, and he’d almost believe him if he didn’t know this script so well. “Just great. Been keeping busy with taking the stock and- and Howard’s thinking of redoing stationary village so-”

“Right, so what did you want?” He knows precisely what is coming. Vince doesn’t do stock. If he’s being lied to then something has definitely gone wrong. It’s a strange relief, in fact, a sign that no matter what they’re still Howard and Vince. 

“Nothing.” Vince lies. “Just checking up on you.” 

Even though Vince can’t see him, he narrows his eyes anyway. “Okay? I need to go then-” 

“Actually-” And there it is. “I might have accidentally brought something into the flat that’s stealing our stuff and now we can’t find it…” 

Naboo grins, from across the room Bollo disengages from Diane and shuffles his way over. “Start at the beginning.” 

Vince takes a deep breath before he launches into the full story. He starts by blaming the girls he met at _SpaceHop_ and then immediately reminds Naboo of Mr Susan and his repetitive speech patterns. By the time he has actually started trying to describe the world they tripped into, Bollo has reached Naboo’s side. 

“Problem?” He grunts. He only gives him an exaggerated eye roll in response that the gorilla understands perfectly.

At this point listening to Vince is going to be a bit pointless. Any descriptions he’s giving are vague enough to border on not helpful at all. Trying to talk about alternate dimensions was difficult enough for humans, what with their language being so primitive and unimaginative, never mind the fact Vince went there _while a bit drunk_. 

Topping it all off he openly admits to having not actually seen whatever creature is plaguing them properly. 

“So you _think_ something’s stealing from you?” He asks, incredulous. 

“No I saw it, I just didn’t _see_ it.” Vince explains. “It was making off with some of my mirrorball scraps and it disappeared. Literally.”

As things with these two go, it’s a pretty tame problem. “When I get back you’re both getting my back turned on you.” 

“Yeah, we deserve that.” Vince doesn’t sound worried. “What can we do about the borrower, though?” 

“Well for a start I’m going to have to figure out where it came from.” Naboo answers, he angles the phone away from his face long enough to tell Bollo they need the carpet. It’s as good an excuse as any to head home. “Tall and glittery people, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Naboo can practically hear him nodding his head. “With big ears. Like a cat's ears almost. Well weird.” 

As far as he knows that encapsulates at least three dimensions he knows of. “I should have a book-” 

“Yeah we tried that.” 

“What?” 

“We’ve been through all your books, couldn’t find anything.” 

It shouldn’t come as a shock, but he still finds himself frowning hard. “You went through my stuff _twice?_ Some of those books are really old, Vince, you can’t just mess about with them.” 

“We were careful!” He defends immediately. 

Reminding himself there’s nothing he can do about it now, not from here, Naboo closes his eyes and takes a deep breath - calms himself to a reasonable level before continuing. “Well go back. There’s a book in there called _Dimensions A-Z_. It should be in with my carpet manual and a collection of planetary maps." He pauses, waits for the inevitable part where Vince relays this information to Howard who is usually hanging off his shoulder during a call like this. 

Except there's silence. 

Naboo suddenly feels like there's something a lot worse than intergalactic thieves going on. If Bollo were here he'd have said it in a much catchier fashion. "Howard with you?" he asks. 

"What?" Vince sounds startled by the question. Naboo hears the rustle of clothing like he's shrugging. "Not right now, why, do I need him for something?" 

His first natural response is to panic. As much panic as he is capable of. He thinks maybe Howard has done one again. That's the only reasonable explanation for why he isn't fused to Vince’s side while they have a crisis. But Vince specifically said Howard was involved in this hot mess. He must be around somewhere, which lends itself to a lot more sinister problems. 

Naboo doesn’t do ‘ _worrying about people’._ But perhaps he’s a bit worried. "Where is he?" 

"Sleeping right now."

" _S_ _leeping?"_ Naboo snaps, suddenly annoyed that he’d been tricked into caring. "You've got alien vermin in the flat and the idiot decided to take a nap?" 

For some reason his outrage is amusing to Vince, who starts giggling at him through the phone. "No, he's got the lurgy." he explains. "Been playing nurse for the past two days, ‘aven't I?" 

Naboo continues to frown. "Howard never gets sick." 

"I know," Vince is smirking, he can hear it in his voice. "It's pretty bad though. Jus’ went down with it. Only got out of bed today but he still looks like he's gonna drop any minute."

Naboo, capable of more advanced puzzle solving than Vince, finds this information pretty disturbing. "When _exactly_ did he get sick?" 

"Uh, Sunday night I reckon. Said he couldn't sleep cause he was all-" He can physically hear the metal clink of the penny dropping over the phone. "Oh. Oh no."

"Keep an eye on him yeah? We’ll be back in a few hours to sort this all out."

"Is he gonna be okay, Naboo?" Vince's voice has adopted an edge of worry that he rarely uses - it’s purely reserved for Howard. 

"That depends on what he's caught." He says gravely. "What's his symptoms been like?" 

"Nothing weird," Vince insists. "He had a high temperature for about a day, spent most of that sleeping and when he woke up he was chucking up everywhere but he seems fine now." There's a pause and then quieter, "He seems _fine._ " 

"Was he hallucinating?" 

"A bit." Vince admits to it like he’s being scolded for his behaviour. "I mean, more like dreaming really. He wasn't even conscious, just like, talking in his sleep. So that's not the same, right?" 

Naboo hums in thought. "You need to monitor him closely, Vince, just in case." Down the line a mantra of ' _yeah, of course, yeah'_ is repeated at him. 

"If he starts barking like a dog or trying to eat the furniture then you're going to have to lock him in a room with as much of the colour orange as you can manage, okay?" Vince does not even hesitate to agree to this while he bites his own lip to keep from laughing. "Alright. Well see you soon."

"Cheers Naboo," and then he's gone. 

Bollo is waiting obediently by his side, and as soon as Naboo tucks his phone away he cocks his head to one side curiously. "Harold got alien sickness?" 

"Nah," Naboo smirks at him, wide and playful. "Just regular human flu, but that'll teach them to go through my stuff." 

Bollo's laughter doesn't stop until they have to explain to Dennis why they're leaving early. 

_21\. And the mops of greasy hair will romanticize my despair_   
_But they won't know that I didn't care_   
_I like the silence, I like the empty streets_

Vince feels like he’s drowning. 

Howard is still napping on the sofa. Undisturbed by the entire exchange he just had with Naboo and completely unaware of what might be wrong with him.

What Vince might have done to him. 

It had taken him ages to gather himself enough to swallow his guilt and make the call in the first place. Now he feels crushed by a ten tonne weight of his wrongdoing. It's a Boa Constrictor wrapped around him; head poised in the crook of his neck, fangs at his pulse point, ready to bite down and finish him off. And honestly, after what he’s just heard over the phone he thinks he just might deserve it. 

Vince doesn’t do the brooding, guilt ridden thing. But then, he never did the _sad_ thing either and yet he’d still let himself cry on their bedroom floor. So he leaves. Being in the same room with Howard is choking him; he finds himself hurrying away into the safe space of the bathroom. Door slammed and locked so that nothing could get in behind him. 

Maybe he’s just filling in for all of Howard’s complex emotions while he’s out of it. 

Leaning against their counter, Vince finds his own gaze in the mirror and sets about giving himself a stern talking to. He is _not_ the one in the duo that gets bogged down by negativity. He _does not_ dwell on mistakes. He’s the sunshine kid, and god knows they could both use a bit of sunshine right now. 

Wallowing in all this emotion was fine when Howard was barely conscious - even sunshine kids are allowed to be sad sometimes - but he can’t make a habit of this. Howard was on the mend. He was awake and _aware_ again. Vince needs to start getting back to himself. 

The first step in that process is going to be to perform some much needed self-maintenance. 

It’s not like Vince at all to fall behind on his self care routine, but needs must and Howard had certainly been in need. Now it’s something he is eager to correct as soon as possible. The shower is flicked on; heat turned up as high as he can stand it. He climbs in and stays there until he starts to feel a little less sick with himself. Only then he starts to clean. He takes his time scrubbing shampoo into his sagging hair, the motion soothing and familiar. Following that up with a healthy dollop of conditioner. Tops it all off with one of his fruitier smelling body washes to rinse the thin layer of grime from his skin. 

Stepping out he feels a bit more like a human being. Runs a comb through his hair and rather than reach for his hairdryer decides it's more important for him to get back to Howard than it is to dry his hair; the likes of which is literally the definition of a selfless act for Vince. 

Before that though, he does pop into the bedroom and pull on some _actual_ clothes. Existing in his lounge clothes (and by that he means a pair of paint stained jeans and some Zoo era t-shirts) was no big deal when only Howard was around to see him less than put together, but Naboo is a different beast entirely. 

Clothes are like a suit of armour for Vince, they keep him protected. It’s another step to feeling like himself again. So he slips on a pair of red skinny jeans and a black patterned blouse - comfortable enough for just the flat and yet looks like he has put some effort in. 

He can sort his hair out later. 

Going back to the living room sees him landing at Howard’s side once more; a homing pigeon finding its way back after a spell away. 

Thankfully he still hasn’t stirred. 

Vince lowers himself to a crouch beside him, tentative fingers brushing over the rise of a cheekbone, the relaxed plane of forehead, settles in the tangle of wispy brown hair. The kind of contact he needs but can’t ask for under the guise of playing nurse. His temperature feels almost completely back to normal now, at least. It’s one small victory in this arduous battle. 

“We’re gonna have to talk, aren’t we?” Vince sighs to himself. 

_Talking_ was rough for them. Both a little bit emotionally stunted as they were. They usually dealt with everything with humour. Somehow Vince felt this was going to be hard (but not impossible) to laugh at. 

Howard remembered enough of his fevered ramblings to know Vince had looked worried about the flat he would almost certainly recall caressing him. The things he said. Which meant they’d have to put their serious faces on soon. 

“Trust you to turn ‘flu into something deep and meaningful,” It would be hilarious if it weren’t painfully sad that this was what they’d been reduced to. Fever doing the talking for them. “Can’t do nothin’ by halves can you.” 

Talking to himself is interrupted by Howard, who starts coughing roughly in his sleep. The guilt ebbs back in as he watches his face crinkle with the effort. 

Naboo had given him very specific instructions, and so Vince lowers himself to the floor properly, back to the sofa by his friend’s head. He clicks the TV on a low volume and settles in for yet another spate of Howard watching.

He ponders where exactly the line lays between a cough and a bark. 

22\. _We're the pre-mixed generation  
Buy into quicker-fix emotion_

Howard returns to the land of the living slowly, but this time feeling a little bit more like he is actually alive. 

The dull throb that had been hammering away in his skull was finally receding, he doesn’t feel the need to peel his own skin off just to feel cool. Or like being awake at all was a gateway to emptying the contents of his stomach. He’ll take it as a win. 

Pressing himself into a seated position is all it takes to attract Vince’s attention. It seems like the younger man was hovering by his side as dutiful as ever. Legs stretched out in front of him, back to the sofa and thumb between his lips no doubt being bitten to shreds. 

“You don’t have to do that, you know.” Howard rasps, thankful that Vince’s foresight is still in full effect and he is handed a glass of water. 

“‘Course I do.” Vince replies easily. “You’re still sick.” 

“But not an invalid.” Howard shoots back. “I’m getting better, Vince.” 

Something flashes in Vince’s eyes then, if Howard didn’t know any better he’d say it was guilt. But Vince rarely feels guilt for the things he actually had a hand in causing, never mind the things that weren’t his fault. Catching an illness was hardly something he could take credit for. Unless. 

“What did Naboo say?” 

There it is, and it’s not as easily concealed this time. Vince looks a bit pained and then, as if coming to a decision, drops heavily onto the sofa beside him. “He’s coming back.” He says. 

“Oh.” That doesn’t sound that bad. “Right. That’s good then, isn’t it?” 

Vince twists his hands in his lap, an anxious habit he’s had since he was a kid. Then like a dam breaking, just blurts. “He thinks you’ve got something. Something bad.” 

“What I’ve got is the flu.” 

“No,” Vince looks him in the eyes then. Dead serious and pale. “He said this could be something from the place we went. Something not normal and... “ He gulps for a breath, Howard can see the panic in his eyes. “He didn’t say much but he _sounded_ \- I’m sorry Howard, I didn’t mean,” 

Howard has no idea how long he’s been asleep, but he all at once knows it was far too long for Vince to be left with a weight like this on his shoulders. Vince’s emotional range is a lot like a toddler’s; it’s all or nothing in every respect. When he’s happy, he is electric, and it's all encompassing for anyone within a ten foot radius. That’s luckily his default state because the others are… bad. When Vince gets sad it drowns him from the inside out. When he gets annoyed it's explosive and volatile. Guilt is the worst. He’s like a rocket trapped on a launch pad, tearing himself apart in an effort to fix what he perceives as his wrong doing. 

He remembers the way he’d tried to cope on his own after the crack fox. He’d had to clean up the pages and pages of what Vince had left behind - ranging from sunshine filled optimism to scribbles of annoyance to the downright self deprecating admission of guilt - inevitably he had come looking for Howard. 

“Vince, it’s fine.” And really, it’s _not._ He has an alien illness and he doesn’t know what it’s doing to him. This is literally every one of his own worst nightmares coming true. It seems important to ground his friend as best as possible, though. “Naboo always fixes it right?” 

Vince, trembling, nods his head at the words. 

“Naboo will know what to do.” Howard is telling himself that as much as he is telling Vince, and he forces himself to keep his breathing level. “No use worrying about it until we know what’s going on.” He says, perfectly reasonably. 

Vince, annoyingly, knows him better than that. Flicks his gaze over his face with wide eyes. “You’re panicking aren’t you?” 

No use in lying now. “A bit, yeah.” 

And that’s all it takes. Vince's face shutters over into a look of utter calm, and he twists in his seat to face Howard - confidently planting his hands on his friend's shoulders. “Don’t panic, that’s not gonna help you is it?” Howard shakes his head. “Look, you’re right, Naboo is on his way back and he gave me a list of things to look out for in the meantime - and I’m a genius nurse - so you’re gonna be just fine.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” It’s amazing how fast Vince manages to bury his emotions - _like a toddler_ \- because Howard is suddenly finding it a bit hard to see past the whole alien sickness thing. “C’mon, ‘oward, we’ve been through too much for a little bug to do you in.” 

That startles a laugh from him. “That’s true.” 

Vince gives his shoulders a brief squeeze, and then sags into him unexpectedly. His breath is knocked from him as the full weight of his friend is buried into his chest. Arms snake around his shoulders and hold him close. 

Vince is hugging him. 

Naturally he freezes. Only for a moment, just long enough to process what is happening. There’s a warm feeling buzzing in his chest that won’t be contained and he finds himself smiling. He raises his arms to envelope the smaller man in a hug but they never land. 

A distinctly _not good_ crashing sound comes from their bedroom. 

They both spring apart, looking first at each other and then down the hall in perfect unison. 

“What-”

“I don’t know.” Vince finishes the thought for him. “Best go find out though.” 

Howard agrees with a hesitant bob of his head. Internally a voice that sounds suspiciously like Bollo declares its bad feeling, but he is Howard Moon. Man of action. He can investigate a little noise surely? 

A second crash comes and this time it spurs Vince to his feet. He makes to rush off down the hall, Howard watches, the younger man's shoulders set and his brow furrowed in determination. He stops only three steps from the sofa though, turns back to Howard with a raised brow. "Coming?" 

He's taken back to the night this all started. Vince sauntering away, his body language all confidence and playful teasing. It isn't like that now. Now it's tense and worn out, tired from days dealing with Howard and an Alien intruder. 

He owes him enough to lend a hand. "Yeah, I'm coming."

_23\. I'm like a rubber band until you pull to hard_   
_Yeah I may snap and I move fast_

Their bedroom is trashed. 

Standing in amongst the mess neither of them can find a single word to say. In all honesty Vince isn’t sure he _could_ say a single thing even if he wanted to. 

It had been a bit of a mess before; blankets strewn about the place and the remnants of care taking left all over in the form of damp flannels, sweet wrappers, and empty glasses on almost every surface. It was a contained kind of mess, but a mess nonetheless. 

But this is as if a bomb has been dropped on the room and left only destruction in its wake. 

Vince keeps a vanity table on his side of the room; the mirror is smashed, large shards of it scattered about the floor. Almost all of his perfume bottles are broken and their combined scent is choking in his lungs. His jewelry box is upended and emptied of its contents; makeup spilled everywhere. 

Several storage boxes from beneath Howard’s bed - ones that were chock full of all manner of things from books to photos, forgotten trinkets and memorabilia from years gone by - have been opened and haphazardly emptied. 

Dressers and wardrobes alike sit open, clothes hanging out of their gaping mouths. 

There’s quite obviously things missing. Even at a glance, they can both tell. Necklaces and bracelets, but also ridiculous things that wouldn’t hold value to anyone but them. The little (definitely plastic) trophy that Howard had gotten when he was a kid for a trumpet solo and had since kept beside his bed is gone. Vince used to have a dreamcatcher pinned above his bed, an age old birthday present from Howard - that was no longer there. 

But the worst part is, there is no care at all shown for the things that have been left behind. 

The frame on Howard’s favourite photo is cracked, splintered glass obscuring Vince’s own grinning face. Both of their music collections have been tossed and kicked about. Vince takes a step into the room and finds himself treading on the shattered remains of a _Kings of Leon_ CD. Similarly, Howard carefully steps around what appear to be shards of a Charlie Mingus record. 

It’s not a nice sight to behold.

More than anything Vince is confused; whatever was plaguing them had always been so quiet and careful about it’s thievery. Why was it all of a sudden ramping up, deciding to ransack a whole room. How did it cause such destruction in so little time? He had been in here just over an hour ago and there was nothing out of the ordinary. 

“I thought you said it was tiny.” Howard asks, voice hoarse. He’s standing over an empty case that used to contain his trumpet. The velvet lining torn, the instrument itself missing. 

“It was!” Vince says immediately, still darting his gaze about the room and trying to process the destruction. “It couldn’t have been bigger than a rat, Howard.” 

“A rat couldn’t do this, Vince!” Howard snaps; it loses some of it’s intensity due to the rough scratch of his throat, but the intention is still there. 

“I know, I-” He looks at the damage again. The size of the items tossed about, the sheer quantity of things taken. “I don’t understand.” 

“Obviously you got it wrong.” Howard says. Vince winces at the accusation in his tone. 

"No, I definitely saw-" He has the good sense to cut himself off before Howard has the chance to do it for him. There's fire in his friend’s eyes he hasn't seen the likes of in a while. Not since he'd gotten them both dumped overboard and stranded on an island. 

"Maybe there's two of them." He offers instead, hoping to douse the flames but inadvertently fuels them instead. 

"Perfect. Just what we need." Howard, like Vince, was a bit of a loud character at the best of times but especially in anger. He snapped and grumbled and made his irritations known at any given opportunity. Not now, he isn’t. Now his voice is level and low - the kind of murmur that is indicative of genuine, burning anger, rather than their usual brand of lukewarm passive aggressive banter. 

Howard was furious.

In light of the situation he couldn’t really blame him - Vince was just as wound up, if not more so. He was just better at channelling it at the little bastard that did the trashing, though, knowing no good could come of them turning on one another now. Perhaps that was simply because he couldn’t blame this one on Howard if he tried. No matter what angle he looked at this from there was no loophole. It was all on Vince. 

Didn’t stop Howard turning it inwards. 

"Why did I have to follow you through that stupid mirror?" Hands drag roughly over Howard’s features, lingering there. His shoulders move with calculated deep breaths. "Couldn't have just left you to your own sodding devices." 

"As if." He interjects with as much light humour in his tone as he can manage; he can claw this back he knows he can. "You _always_ come with me Howard - that's our thing _._ It's what we do."

"Yeah, and look where it gets us." 

To be perfectly honest, Vince thinks he deserves a medal for not being physically bowled over by that. Howard swings his gaze back to him and it lands like a punch to the gut; breath rushing from him. Dull ache blooming from the centre of his chest. There’s no temper in the raw emotion painted on his friend’s face now. Just sadness. 

They’ve always been able to understand each other on a level that didn’t require them to use words all of the time. Silent communication was something of a forte. Comes in handy for moments like this. Moments when putting voice to what they’re both thinking might just be a bit too hard. 

_Can we keep going like this?_ It says. _Is this what we are now?_

"Howard." It's more a plea than a name. In the wake of it Howard can't look at him; tracks his eyes to the shattered photo resting by his bare feet. 

"I'm not built for all this like you are." Is what eventually comes into the silence, more than a little self deprecating. He attempts to shrug one shoulder, casually, as if this whole discussion is no big deal and that more than anything lights a fire in Vince. “I’m not-” 

"What _utter rubbish_ ." Vince finds himself snapping. His own annoyance festering in the face of what he perceives as an ending. An ending he _will not_ take lying down. "Why you chatting on like this is something people _expect_ from their lives? We’re an exception to the rule, ‘oward. We always have been. That’s who we _are._ " When the other man does nothing but frown at his feet he adds. “There's no one ‘built’ for yetis or murder happy mermen or any of that nonsense - well, maybe Naboo is but he ain’t human is he? Point is, this is our life and we adapt. It’s what we do best.” 

There’s still only silence. Normally Vince can read his friend like a book but at the minute it’s a bit like trying to read a foreign instruction manual for some complicated machinery - pretty damn impossible.

"C’mon,” He tries for jovial once more. “You must enjoy it _a little bit."_

That gets his attention. 

Howard’s head whips up like it’s on a bungee cord, the kindling of his bad mood reigniting. "What? No. No, I don't enjoy it, Vince. I don't enjoy when you get us in trouble with rabid foxes and sell me out for some clothes. Or when I have to risk my life to wander around your insides. Or when _I_ get kidnapped or turned into a slave or _called a pet."_ Howard steps toward him, barely an arms length between them now. "None of that was _fun."_

He’s looming over him - uncharacteristic for Howard who rarely bothers to use his height to his advantage. To Vince's memory it has only ever happened twice before and both of those instances ending with the younger man laughing him off. Somehow he doesn't think laughing at him will help now. 

"Well obviously not _those_ bits, you lunatic!" He squares his shoulders. Plants his feet. It's a fighting stance, ensuring he’s ready for anything. Not that Howard would dare lay a finger on him; Vince would bet his life on that. Regardless, he wants to prove he isn't backing down either. "But the other bits. The good times. Like bringing the funk home. Crimping on stage together. Saving the world from an army of nanas.”

The hard set of Howard’s jaw relaxes a fraction, but it’s not the end. “Can be a bit hard to enjoy those bits when they’re clouded over by my humiliation.” 

“Oh my god!” It was proving to be a very short journey to the end of Vince’s patience. “Why do you always focus on the negatives?” 

“I don’t-”

“Yeah, you do.” Vince is the one to step forward this time; he’s secretly pleased when Howard instinctively takes one backwards. “Always bangin’ on about the hardships. ‘ _Ooh I’m having a bit of a shocker, I better make sure everyone within a five mile radius knows how terrible I’ve got it’._ ” The attempt at a Northern accent was probably uncalled for but it’s worth it for the way Howard’s face pinches in further annoyance. “We’re _all involved_ , Howard, that’s all I’m sayin’.” 

This information serves to bring Howard’s tense shoulders down another notch. Slowly chipping away at his foul mood. “Well it’s easy for you, isn’t it.” He says - there’s a hard edge to his tone but it’s edging resigned rather than anger. “It all works out for you all the time.” 

The snort Vince gives is far from graceful. “As if.” 

“What?” Howard barks a sarcastic laugh. “You’re a victim now are you?” 

“When my best friend hands me over to a mountain man in exchange for a map - or prefers the company of a coconut?” Vince is careful to keep his tone level. Sees the horror of realisation spread on his friends face. “Yeah, I reckon I am. But you don’t see me going on about it all the time like a wronged lady, do you?” 

Because _someone_ had to be the sunshine in this duo. 

“Vince…” 

He doesn’t let Howard finish that thought. Holds a hand up to pause him and thankfully the man listens. All the fight has left him now. In the wake of their argument they both stand, deflated, practically chest to chest. Vince with his head tipped back staring up at his friend and Howard looking down at him in return. 

The truth might have been harsh, and Vince hated to have it dragged out as much as Howard no doubt did. But it needed to be done. It was the start of a conversation he knew was coming - had been coming for a long time. When he’d said to his sleeping form earlier that they needed to talk, he meant it. Granted he had hoped it would have been in a more civilised manner than shouting at one another in frustration of a completely separate problem. But at least the dialogue was started now. They could move on from here and see where they landed. 

But first they had stuff to do. 

“More important things to do than have this chat, yeah?” He does what he does best, beams a smile up at Howard and is relieved to see him return the look with a hesitant nod. 

"Did Naboo say anything else?" 

Quick as a flash he’s changed gears on his emotions and set himself on the path of enthusiasm. "Yeah! Yeah he said there was a book we missed, in with his maps. I think he wants us to look in there, see if we can't pinpoint whatever dimension we went to."

"Right." Howard doesn’t move though. Rather just stands there and watches Vince as if expecting him to do something.

"You coming then?" 

"What?" 

"Are you coming?" Vince repeats. Sets his hands on his hips and nods his head to the doorway. "Help me find this book?" 

"Do you really _need_ help?" Howard grumbles. Vince can tell he’d much attempt to salvage something from the wreckage of their bedroom. He is staring longingly down at the pieces of record that used to be an exclusive copy of Rudi and Spider live at Woodstock.

"Well I'm not leaving you on your own in here."

"Why not?" 

"Because something a bit bigger than a rat is running around and you're about as likely to defend yourself as you are when you're healthy so-" 

"I can defend myself!" 

"Course you can." Vince rolls his eyes. 

Howard narrows his. "I'm Howard Moon, man of action. I'll win any fight I get into, sir."

"Will you really? Cause I reckon you’d have won an award for long distance the amount you run away.” Vince rolls his eyes, hoping it won't push this banter back into the realm of an argument. It doesn’t, but Howard does sigh heavily. 

He sends one more forlorn look at his smashed belongings and Vince sags. “Howard? It’s done now, yeah. All we can do is find whatever’s doing it before something really bad happens.” 

His thoughts turn to the shop downstairs. The thing had already been through their stockroom but if it _was_ bigger now (or indeed there was more than one) then there was a whole new set of potions and antiques that were at risk. The earth destroying magic that no doubt hangs around in these four walls is easily their biggest concern for protecting. All the things an alien can do if it gets its hands on things like that. Howard comes to the same conclusion because he gingerly steps over the mess and reaches Vince’s side. “Come on then.” 

They go. 

_24\. 'Cause what good is good, anyway_   
_And having it all, is just a state of mind_

Thankfully Naboo’s room is untouched by whatever ransacked theirs. 

Now that they know exactly what they’re looking for it takes no time at all for them to find the book t, buried as it is underneath crudely folded maps and wedged onto the shelf. _Dimensions A-Z._ If he thought they had the capability for humour he’d probably find this whole thing just a little bit funny - because in some ways it was - a tiny invisible creature with a penchant for thievery ransacking their flat while they sleep. It’s certainly the kind of thing that could only happen to them. 

Howard is still tainted enough with annoyance thanks to the state of their room that he thinks better than to make a joke of it just yet. Instead he grabs the book from his friends hand and drops heavily onto the bed, starts flipping absently through the pages. It doesn’t take long for Howard to land by his side. 

“Here, this one sounds right.” Vince declares after a moment. Finger poised on one glossed page; description being that this particular dimension is made up of jungle terrain and feline like people. 

“No,” Howard says, takes the book from Vince’s grasp and looks closer. “No, I don’t think this is it.” 

“How many places can there be with people like that?” Vince demands, only to watch Howard flip to the index (bloody smart idiot) in the back and announce. “Three, apparently.” 

Then he flips to each of the individual ones and compares them. Vince knows he is useless at this particular portion of the evening and rather chooses to observe the process by leaning heavily into his side in order to peer at the pages. Being focused as he is, Howard hardly notices that Vince is observing the side of his face with a small smile - he’s always looked a bit dashing when he’s concentrating. 

“Well it can’t be this one, this one is a desert world.” Howard says to one of the three options, jolting his awareness back to the task at hand. 

“Then it’s one of the other two, easy.” 

Not so easy. All the information laid out before them indicates that the two places are startling similar. Both are jungle based worlds, which they agree they were definitely in, and both claim to be home to the tall cat like creatures, both with glittering skin. Only a few minor details separating them - details Howard and Vince had no real chance of knowing - like culture disparages, or weather phenomenons.

Vince groans his displeasure, dragging a palm over his face. “How are we gonna know which one it was, then?” 

Howard’s got his thinking face on, though, his lip twitching, brow furrowed in thought. Then he definitively announces, “It’s this one.” 

“What?” Vince peers over at the page; in the centre is a photograph of the terrain, jungle as expected. Next to that a diagram of the beings; tall, ropey limbs, pointed ears (and two stomachs apparently). Finally, a little column of text informing them of the interesting features you can find there - wildlife and such. It looks _exactly_ the same as the other page aside from minor formatting points; he doesn't know what Howard sees. “How do you know?” 

Howard smirks knowingly. Smug as anything he points a finger at the information column. “The rain. It was raining remember?” 

“Yeah, and?” He can see what Howard is pointing at, the sentence that says it is common for this dimension to storm. “The other one said that too. It’s stormy, how does that help?” 

“It was red.” Howard says. “I remember. The rain was red. This is the only one that lists red rain as an interesting feature.” 

Vince looks at Howard, then down at the page again, then back at Howard. Slowly a grin blooms on his features. “You are a genius, Howard.” 

Smug grin twists into an expression a tad more humble. “It’s just the art of perception Vince, always be aware of your surroundings.” 

“Yeah well, this is why I bring you along all the time,” He jokes. “Cause you'll know what to look for.” 

They share a grin, and something warm unfurls in his chest. He only gets a brief moment to wonder if another hug might be appropriate. The last one seemed to go well for them, he hadn’t been shrugged off - and it was almost certainly the physical reassurance Vince craved after a bit of a spat. That being said, with everything that had gone on in that bedroom it may not be well received either. No matter how Howard seems fine contact can be a bit much. 

Regardless, before he can try Howard's stomach rumbles in spectacular fashion and reminds Vince that the man hasn’t eaten a proper meal in a while. 

“We need to get you fed.” He announces, springing to his feet. 

“Are you still playing nurse then?” 

“Until we’re certain what’s wrong with you, yeah.” The book is pulled from Howard’s hands, the relevant page dog eared, and then snapped shut. “If you keel over then I’ll have no one to shout at me for being messy.” 

The mention of mess reminds them about the other room and subsequently everything else. For a moment they were able to coast on, pretending it was all fine. But now the air gets distinctly more melancholy. Vince forces himself to keep his gaze on Howard even as the other man’s drops to his lap. “There’s still something in the flat Vince,” The concern is welcome in comparison to anything else he could have said. 

Plus it's true. Something distinctly bigger than a rat and not opposed to causing damage to their property is here with them. Not only that, it's behaviour is escalating. It's a problem, sure, but he couldn’t leave Howard starving. What if he needed the strength later?

So he compromises. 

Turning to Naboo’s wardrobe, he flings the doors open and dips at the waist to begin rooting through. Howard questions him, but Vince is on the hunt for something important. When his hands close around a tennis racket (Bollo used to play) he stands tall again with a triumphant smirk. Smacking it against one palm he deems it worthy enough as a self defense weapon. 

When he turns back to Howard the man is wide eyed with barely concealed horror. “Right then, you wait here and I’ll go get what we need.” 

“What?” Is the sputtered response a gaping Howard gives him.

“Well you’re right. There’s something creeping about the flat,” And the fact it hadn’t hurt them yet meant nothing. It could easily hurt them now. “Until Naboo gets back we don’t know what it is or if it’s dangerous so we’ll hole up in here.” 

“So _why_ are you going out there?” 

“Because you need to eat something or you’ll never get better.” Vince insists. “Look, I’ll probably be fine, whatever it is has been careful, yeah? It’s clearly avoiding us as much as we’re avoiding it - chances are it won’t even come near me. So wait here, and I’ll be right back.” 

Vince doesn’t give Howard pause enough to argue with him before he slips from the room. 

_25\. Every half-said word is a ghost in the hall_   
_And every thought is a wild fire burning me up_

Howard thinks Vince might have gone properly insane.

Entirely possible after days cooped up in the flat with nothing more than a delirious Howard and an intergalactic menace for company. Vince was a social butterfly, he thrived on his interactions with other people. On their attention and affection; he needed it as much as anyone else might need water. And they were things he was a lot less likely to get from Howard himself as of late. 

Still, waltzing into the flat at large with nothing more than a tennis racket against an unknown threat - that was a fresh kind of madness. 

It’s not like they weren’t accustomed to dealing with quite dangerous situations on a semi regular basis. Demons, fine. Rabid beasts of magical origin, not a problem. Murderous hitchhikers, dealt with it _multiple times over_. But this felt different. The whole situation was adding up to something sinister in Howard’s mind. He just couldn’t quite work out which parts of the equation he should be more concerned about. 

Maybe it was because they had yet to actually _see_ their assailant. That this entity was lurking in a state of complete anonymity. At least they could see a Yeti. They more than understood what they were up against with a rogue jazz cell. Seeing something was half the battle when it came to _understanding_ it. All they can gather in this instance is that it’s taking things and gradually increasing the frequency and intensity of it’s theft. 

He’s got faith Vince can take care of himself, he’s proven over the years he can, but that doesn’t stop him worrying every minute ticks by that he’s gone. 

Through the wall there’s the sounds of Vince trying to cobble together some food. Cluttering about in the kitchen, ceramic hitting the counter and the shrill beep of a microwave. None of it sounds like he’s in imminent danger. Besides, the younger man was making an irritating habit of being _right_ lately - he was probably bang on the money where this was concerned. Vince had spent two days actively trying to hunt this thing down and hadn’t managed it - the likelihood was it wasn’t going to come at them now.

Being the worrier that he is, none of this information helps. He decides that the only thing that is going to take his mind off his concern is to do something to help. Despite being a man of action, he’s not quite 100% (and that’s _definitely_ the reason he doesn’t follow behind Vince into the danger of the kitchen) and so his options for helping are limited. Eventually he settles on what he does best, he’s going to take notes. 

The first step in this plan is to actually find some paper, Naboo’s room is a bit of a state but he at least keeps his mess into small clumps of disorganised categories. All his illicit business stacked haphazardly in a corner, stationary and books dumped on a desk, dirty washing piled by the door. It doesn’t take long for Howard to find a few unused sheets of paper and a pen to start jotting things down with. 

He starts by listing the obvious things he knows with absolute certainty. 

It came from that mirror dimension inside a box that Vince couldn’t open. The people who gave it to them said it would only open for Vince. It was stealing things - but only very specific things. It may potentially be growing and/or there may be multiples of it. And apparently, if Vince’s account is correct, then it can perform some sort of teleportation trick to get away from people? 

Following that he does his best to extrapolate information, beginning with listing everything he can remember that it’s taken (that Vince has told him it’s taken, at least, he wasn’t exactly conscious for most of the thefts). Every item of jewelry Vince owns, his bookmark brought back from Denmark, sequin fabric, Vince’s dream catcher, his jazz trophy, his trumpet. Items of stock that Howard had put into the shop.

The pattern hits him all at once and he curses their combined stupidity that it had taken them this long to come to a conclusion. Other than a few outliers it is taking things that are, to some extent, deemed as valuable to the pair of them. It sounds ridiculous but almost everything about this situation is utterly batty so he thinks he can believe it. The question now is _why_ has it focused on Howard and Vince as an intended target for it’s thievery. Why is it taking things that will hold no value to anyone but them? Surely it’s counter intuitive.

But worrying about that isn’t really his responsibility, that will be for Naboo to sort out. 

Having some information to go forward with does make him feel slightly better about the whole thing though. 

That’s when he hears a crash from the kitchen and Vince scream. 

He pauses for just long enough to wonder why it’s _always_ a dramatic crash from another room that sends them running, and then he’s on his feet and pushing out into the hallway. 

Vince is in the kitchen, staring, face white as a sheet at the stairs leading down to the shop. On the floor in front of him is a smashed ceramic bowl that had been holding soup, now splashed over all sorts of surfaces.

“What’s wrong?” Howard asks, looking between the stairs and Vince’s ashen face. 

“I saw it.” Vince utters, only now dragging his gaze to Howard’s face. “Like, properly saw it.” 

“What?” Howard takes a step closer to Vince, backing himself away from the stairs where Vince’s gaze returns to over and over again. “What did it look like?” 

“Huge.” Vince swallows thickly. “It was- was like those other creatures but shorter and stockier. And it’s skin was dull… a bit like, like it was supposed to be shiny but wasn’t quite shiny enough, you know?” He shudders. “And it’s eyes, Howard, all dull and blank.” 

Just the image of it makes Howard shudder. “Where did it-”

“Down into the shop.” He says, and then seems to snap to attention. “Oh shit, Howard the shop, it’s gone to the shop!” 

As if on cue there is an awful clatter, things being knocked over downstairs. 

“What are we going to do?” 

Howard takes a minute to come to the conclusion. “How long did Naboo say he’d be?” 

“A few hours,” Vince checks the clock hung on the wall. “That was about an hour and a half ago.” 

“We should go back to Naboo’s room.” 

“What?” 

“Well what else _can_ we do!” 

“We have to do somethin’, it could get its hands on all sorts down there or- or what if it gets out into the street, Howard!” Vince has stepped up to him, clutching desperately at the lapels of his dressing gown. 

He brings his own hands up, intending to pry smaller fingers off of him but he ends up just clutching at him in return. “Vince, we don’t know what it’s capable of!” 

“When has that ever stopped us before!”

He’s got a point, but Howard really doesn’t want to admit it. “Well what would you have us do, then?”

Vince bites his lip, thinks a moment, then announces. “Trap it.” He seems to have said the idea before thinking it through because all of a sudden he is grinning to himself, like congratulating his own brain on a brilliant plan. “Yeah! Yeah, we need to trap it somehow, so Naboo can deal with it when he gets back.” 

More crashing and sounds of glass breaking from downstairs. Howard gnaws on his lip in thought. He is nowhere near back to 100% yet, and he’d rather not come into contact with the eldritch nightmare his friend is describing if it’s all the same to everyone. But at the same time he knows he is right. 

If they leave it, then who knows what it can get up to. Naboo’s cupboard of potions is down there (padlocked, but a lock probably won’t stop this thing). And just beyond that is the rest of the world. 

They had to do something. 

“We at least need a plan before we go down there.” He insists. Vince nods at him emphatically. “Right, come on then. I _can’t believe_ you’ve talked me into this while I'm sick _._ ”

_26\. Not anyone, you're the one_   
_More than fun, you're the Sanctuary_   
_'Cause what you want is what I want_   
_Sincerity_

“We’ll have to find something to use as bait,” 

“Obviously.” Vince agrees to the wall. 

Howard outright refused to fight monsters in his pyjamas (Vince got to be dressed, it was only fair) and the younger man was still straddling the line between caretaker and obsessively protective enough to demand to be in the room with him just in case something happened. 

What could possibly happen in the short time it would take him to pull on his clothes he had no idea - but he wasn’t up for the battle of pointing that out. Instead he reluctantly submitted to Vince’s wishes on the condition he keep his back turned. After all, it was the only way he could claw some dignity back here. 

“I think it’s only interested in stuff we care about.”

“You wot?” He can hear Vince disbelieving smirk without seeing it. “How would it know about that stuff?”

Howard shrugs despite not being looked at, buttoning his shirt with quick practiced fingers. “I don’t know but it’s the only thing that makes sense when you look at what’s gone missing,” 

Vince stands silent for a moment, contemplating, then he huffs. “Not sure if there’s going to be anything left for us to use, to be honest. It got all my accessories.” He sounds almost comically put out about that last part - Howard smirks gently. 

“We’ll find something,” He says, an automatic comfort. “The problem is going to be keeping it trapped. When I was -” 

“Are you done yet?” Vince snaps; though it’s got no real heat. “Feel like a right tit talking to the wall.”

Howard rolls his eyes skyward but agrees. Vince spins, unmistakably looks him from head to toe and then beams at him. “You’re looking much better, now.”

“Yes, well, we’ll see if it stays that way.” Howard waves him over until he’s stood by his side, their shoulders brushing. “As I was saying - When I was thinking earlier, you said it just disappeared into thin air?”

“Yeah.” Vince bobs his head, blue eyes looking up at Howard through his fringe. “It was there and then it wasn’t. Teleported or something.” 

Howard chews on his lip. This does pose a problem to the ‘trapping it’ plan. At least until Vince adds. “But it’s the box, innit?”

“What?”

Seemingly having thought this was a thought process they shared, Vince is suddenly shy about his realisation. “Well I always thought it was just blipping back into its box - and if it is coming out of that then it’s never come out when people can see it, has it? I was staring at it _all day_ Sunday and nothing went missing. Not till I was busy with you the next day.” 

It was a perfectly logical suggestion. “So where’s the box now?”

“I don’t know, when it buggered off that time the box was gone too - if we want to trap it properly we need to find the box. That way if it jumps inside it then we can, I don’t know, tape it shut.”

It was hardly the plan of the century, but in their limited knowledge and even more limited resources it was the best they could do. “Right. Find the box.” Vince leads them back out into the flat, a telltale crash from downstairs informs them that the thing is still very much causing havoc with their stock. “What about _actually_ trapping it?” He asks in a hissed whisper. 

Vince heads straight for, presumably, the last place he saw his little gift. Turning the chairs cushions upside down. “What about the stockroom?” He suggests. “There’s not much properly dangerous in there.”

“Maybe we toss the box in after it - lock both of them in the one room so it can’t go anywhere.”

That makes Vince chuckle at him. “Might as well, not like we have any idea what to actually do.” He snickers. 

Howard, similarly amused, joins in with the search. They work in silence for a while; Howard searches behind the bar, through their combined record collection and eventually ventures to their small kitchen. Vince focuses his efforts on their furniture and the concave space of the tower. 

Eventually it’s he who has success. Shouts, “Howard look!” and brandishes the box with a triumphant grin. 

“You found it!” 

“Yeah,” Vince steps over to Howard in the same instance that Howard himself steps and they meet in the middle of the flat to look down at the unassuming metal box. “Who’d have thought this little thing would cause so much trouble?” Vince sighs.

“Me.” He takes the offending item from his friend’s hands, brandishes some duct tape he’d found and offers a conspiratorial grin. “Tape it up?” 

“Yeah!” At least they’re able to find some humour in this situation. Howard holds the box steady while Vince gleefully wraps the tape around it as many times as he can stand. It’s possibly the stupidest thing they could be doing in a moment like this and yet somehow it’s exactly what they _need_ to be doing. A small amount of comical relief in amongst a few days of turmoil. 

“Right.” Howard announces proudly. “It’s definitely not getting back out of that if it tries.” 

Vince, unhelpfully, tossed the now empty roll of tape to the side and takes the box back. “Now I just need something to lure it with.” 

Howard's joy halts in its tracks. “What do you mean?”

The berk actually has the audacity to roll his eyes at him. “I mean, we have to lure it to the stockroom right? So I’m going to need something it’ll want. Something that I don’t want it to want - otherwise it won’t follow me.” 

“Wha- Why has it got to be you?” Now, Howard didn’t exactly want it to be him either, but that doesn’t mean a discussion about it wouldn’t have been appreciated. 

“Because, you muppet, you’re sick.” Vince’s smile dulls around the edges. Not as intense in it’s joy. “It’ll rip you up like an angry toddler with a paper towel if it gets its hands on you.” 

Howard is still a bit too lost for words in the face of Vince’s selflessness to form much of a response. 

“‘Sides, I’m all young and lithe - I can dodge about. It won’t come anywhere near me.” 

“You don’t know that,” Howard croaks around his suddenly dry throat. 

Because they really don’t. Everything about this is the pair of them flying blind. It could be harmless for all they knew, or it could be violent, dangerous. It could be thirsting for human flesh. And Vince was chatting calmly about putting himself directly in it’s reach. 

“Maybe we could-” 

But Vince knows exactly what he’s going to say and cuts him off with a laugh. It’s not humorous though, it’s empty and forced. “C’mon Howard, you’re meant to be the smart one here. I’ve got a better chance of outrunning it; and I’m not _completely_ daft. I can do this.”

And it never happens like this. It’s startling in it’s unfamiliarity. There’s almost always some sort of discussion (argument) about who has to deal with it. A back and forth of _you, no you_ on loop until one of them gives in. That’s what Howard had been waiting for. 

He knows Vince is right - it’s the conclusion they would have landed on anyway - but something about Vince just offering himself up like a sacrifice, bypassing any room for argument. It’s uncomfortable. It doesn’t sit right on his skin. 

He can’t help but replay everything Vince had told him in the aftermath of seeing it. How he’d insisted this thing looks more like a monster than the human like things they’d talked to in the alternate world. Hardly comforting.

Said it had sharp teeth, hollow eyes, a dull grey kind of skin. It went up to Vince’s waist and shaped out with thick muscle. It had sent him on a tangent about the lions from his childhood, lean but powerful muscle hiding beneath their fur. 

They’re hovering at the top of the stairs together. Any smashing from downstairs stopped some time ago, leaving them only the metallic thunk of things hitting the floor. For some reason, Vince is looking at him with pity, despite being the one about to do something incredibly daft and dangerous. 

“You’re sure?” Howard asks, pretends he isn’t so deeply concerned that his nausea has returned. 

“Yeah,” Vince, equally pretending not to be terrified with a broken smile. 

“Right. Wait there, then.” The other man opens his mouth, but promptly closes it again when Howard reaches for his satchel. Untouched and hanging unobtrusively on the bannister where he’d left it some days ago. After digging around inside his fingers close around the gift wrapped box. Figures he couldn’t have just given it to him in a normal way, he squeezes his eyes shut and thanks whatever cosmic entity that continually puts them on paths like this. 

Nothing to do about it now though, he pulls it out with little flourish and holds it out to his friend. 

Vince's eyes go wide; he laughs. “What’s that.” Howard doesn’t bother with giving that with a response. “Now’s not really the time for presents, Howard.” 

“I know but.” He hates how he has to do this. “I think it will work better than anything we might be able to find.” 

Vince still looks confused, but takes the box and slowly unwraps it. Inside sits a silver pendant. It’s a crescent moon, and attached to that is a smaller star with a diamonte in the centre that catches the light and glints. Vince gapes at it, then at him. 

“Is this-”

“For you? Yeah.” He stares at his feet. He’s always been terrible at this stuff. The sincerity. “Well, for him now.” There’s a crash from downstairs to illustrate the point. 

“Howard…” 

“Don’t.” He knows what’s going to come. A conversation, explanations. Apologies. “We can do that bit later.” He does manage to smirk though. “After you’ve wrestled it back from the literal jaws of defeat, no doubt.” 

Vince smirks at him. “You can be sure of that, this is way too pretty to let that stinking great beast have it.” Then he grins slyly at him. “Is this why you were acting all weird the other night when you got home?” 

“I don't know what you mean.” Howard huffs, which of course, means yes. 

Vince smiles at him, all affection and warmth. “Thank you,” He utters softly, reaches out with gentle fingers as if he wants to take Howard’s hand. 

It’s all a bit much. Bit too open. Bit too honest. Not the ideal moment. He steps out of reach and nods down the stairs. “Right, we best get a move on then.” 

_27\. It's not over, not over, not over, not over yet_   
_You still want me don't you?_

Vince is remarkably calm as he creeps down the stairs. 

It has a lot to do with what he’s clutching in his hand. 

Howard bought him a necklace. Not just any necklace, a necklace that is no doubt supposed to represent _them._ Vince probably wouldn’t have noticed it had he been the one to buy it, but almost everything Howard has ever and will ever do is drenched in subtext. Even if he didn’t really realise he was doing it, the man was made up of hidden meaning. 

He’s a bit deep and complex like that. 

A moon and a star was glaringly obvious even for him. 

So he’s not scared. Not in the slightest. Once this is all over he knows he will be able to sit down with him and have a good old chat. He knows for certain they might finally get somewhere with this tension that’s been building between them since Denmark. 

And it would probably be a good thing. Almost certainly they would be able to get it all out in the open; the things they’d fought about not that long ago in the bedroom, the things that had gone said unconsciously. Everything there was still left not verbalised. All of it was going to come out now and it would be for the better. 

But there was always the chance it wouldn't - that they'd realised they'd changed too much as people to come back from it. 

Honestly, nothing could scare him as much as that thought. 

So he is remarkably calm as he goes down the stairs. Howard is exactly two steps behind him; no matter how Vince had originally argued for him to stay out of the way completely - they still didn't know what alien illness he might have - Howard was being remarkably brave and insisted on being nearby. 

Catching sight of the thing has him holding in a gasp. If he had to liken it to any animal Vince knew of in the real world then it was distinctly feline in the way it moved. Not surprising, even the people had been cat-like in the place it had come from. But this was a twisted parody of the thing - hunched form and pointed teeth. It’s ears are ragged and torn rather than the elegant points of the people they’d met. 

It's somehow grown since the last time he saw it. Where it sits squat on the floor with its claw-like hands wrapped around a china teapot (That had been Howard’s Nana’s, remembers him putting it in storage right at the back of the stockroom since their space in the flat was limited. In the _definitely do not sell_ area), staring into the pot. Vince thinks he can see it growing in real time. Its murky dark skin shifting and stretching. The colour of darkening with each passing second too, now like a muddy grey than the slightly lighter silver it had been earlier. 

Vince wonders if that should be worrying. 

He steps on a floorboard, it creaks loudly, both the pair of them freeze but the thing doesn't react at all. Keeps staring into the teapot. 

The shop is a disaster. Like their bedroom it has been turned upside down while this thing hunts out things that the pair of them put any value on. They both watch in silent horror as it shatters the china pot between it’s fists and then _swallows_ the shards. 

It's eating everything shiny it steals, Vince realises. There goes his hope of getting back some of the things he’d lost. 

Howard must come to the same conclusion, and he squeaks in fear. Vince turns to shush him but then pauses. Again the creature didn't react. Vince takes a risk. 

"Oi!" 

Howard slaps a hand over his mouth so fast it hurts, but mercifully. The creature remains unphased. They both come to the same conclusion at the same time. 

"It's deaf." Howard says. 

"That explains why it didn't hear me screamin' on earlier." Vince says. Looks round at Howard. "Probably why it's been smashing about the place even while trying to be stealthy." The thing sticks it's head into a barrel of merchandise. "It doesn't realise how much noise it's making." 

"But if it can't hear us," Vince looks back at Howard again. "How has it been avoiding us." 

"Maybe it's telepathic." Vince guesses. As if they weren’t standing in the presence of a pretty large and probably dangerous creature. "Oh, or maybe it's got some sort of alien-" 

"No." Howard cuts him off, and Vince barely gets his mouth open to call him rude before Howard is gulping and nudging him around. 

The creature is staring dead at them now, a silk scarf hung off one pointed ear and its sharp teeth bared in a snarl. It's rounded nose twitches furiously and Vince understands. Suddenly wishes he didn't insist on wearing such distinct perfume, remembers spritzing it on himself every opportunity he had the past two days. "Guess he can smell us then…" 

"Yeah." Howard pushes harshly at his shoulder. "Run!" and he does. 

Howard darts to the right, heads in the direction of the door - hopefully with the intention of bolting it shut. The taped up box he'd been cradling clatters to the floor. Vince dodges to the left, towards the stockroom. Even in his haste he remembers to hold the necklace in his fist above his head so that it will catch the thing’s attention. 

It works. 

It screeches a blood curdling sound at him and lunges. You'd think being the size it is, it would be considerably slower. You’d be wrong. It moves fast as lightning, one muscly arm reached out. Manages to wrap a sharpened claw around Vince's ankle and tug with the kind of strength that takes his feet out from under him. 

He hits the floor like a tonne of bricks, chin knocking against the linoleum and cracking his teeth onto his tongue. The thing wastes no time in scrambling up his body towards the necklace still held in his outstretched fist.

Claws dig into his ribs painfully as he tries his best to wriggle free. God but it is heavy where it's settled on his back. Then there's the blur of feet by his head, a hand scoops down and snatches the pendant. 

The pressure is gone and Vince looks up to see Howard scurrying off on wobbly legs towards the stockroom. He looks terrified, bless him, but he’s going with utter determination painted on his features. Vince hurries to his feet and tries to keep up. Howard overshoots the door a bit and has to come to a hard stop. The creature slams into him and crashes them both into the far wall with a rough thud. 

The pendant clinks to the floor but the creature hasn't noticed, it's too busy wrestling with Howard to try and find it like an overeager dog searching for it’s a treat. 

Vince scoops it up and lands a healthy kick to the back of the animal, which thankfully seems to work. It screeches and crumples for a second, Vince uses this time to grab Howard by the wrist and drag him out of harm's way. Swings him - less than gently given the way his friend winces - and delivers a healthy shove so he stumbles back in the direction of the stairs. Then he backs up, showing off the pendant, the creature hovers low, and it does remind him of the lions now. Shoulders shifting in preparation of a pounce. 

Vince backs himself into the open doorway of the stockroom, the thing stalking after him. 

At the last second he turns and throws the pendant into the room. The creature leaps, uses one powerful arm to swipe Vince aside in a painful fashion. He's no sooner crashed to the ground for a second time than Howard has kicked the box like a football into the room after it and hurried to slam the door shut. 

The click of the lock is the most reassuring sound Vince has ever heard. 

Pressing himself into a sitting position he finds Howard slumped against the door. Back against the wood and head dipped low. His chest is heaving with exertion, he’s a bit pale, a thin layer of sweat forming on his forehead - but he otherwise seems unharmed. Their eyes meet, they stare at each other for a second in stunned silence and then they burst out into laughter. Hysterical, loud, manic laughter. 

Vince let's himself flop back against the floor. Howard slides until his bum hits the floor and they laugh until they can't breathe. 

The rhythmic movement of his chest as he giggles is what clues him in to his ribs aching. As the adrenaline starts to wear off he brings a delicate hand up to cup his side. "Ow." He utters. 

Howard stops laughing at once. "You alright?" 

"Yeah." Vince replies automatically, far more pressing concerns on his mind. He forces himself to a sitting position once more and _crawls_ over to Howard. "What about you. You don't look so good." 

And he doesn't. Face ashen and breathing still shallow, Vince is more worried about the whole ordeal putting him out of action for another few days than he is any of his own injuries. Naboo _had_ warned him this could get worse again and he curses himself for ever letting Howard get involved with this plan. The other man’s gaze is hazy and unfocused as it darts over Vince’s face. 

"Howard?" 

"Your lip," Howard breathes, reaching up to brush his thumb over it, and sure enough, it stings. Must have split it. 

"Is fine." He insists. He similarly reaches up and presses a palm to Howard's cheek. He's clammy. Vinces thoughts go into overdrive. "We need to get you back upstairs."

The process of doing that is rough. Howard keeps insisting he's fine. And the only thing Vince can be thankful for is that he seems coherent. He isn't hallucinating or drifting off or _barking._ He just seems unable to keep his breath even and he feels warm to the touch again in a way Vince had thought had passed. 

That paired with the fact he is obviously weak from not eating properly in a while and the adrenaline no doubt still coursing through him. He's almost a dead weight. Vince would normally have no problem shouldering his weight but he's fairly sure that thing gave him a bruised rib or two when it smacked him about. 

It all gets a bit much when they get back to the living room. Howard almost falls right to the floor when his knees buckle, luckily they're near the sofa, because Howard faints. 

_28\. All we know is distance_   
_We're close and then we run_   
_Kiss away the difference_

The world comes back to him in bits and pieces. 

The first thing he registers is something cool on his forehead. Then it's the familiar smell of his best friend, that ridiculously sweet perfume that at this point is synonymous with _Vince_. It’s that thought that leads him to the memory of everything that happened. 

He shoots his eyes open and tries to sit bolt upright but Vince is (of course) there, holding him in his slouched position. He's not lying down at least, more like splayed out on the sofa. He relaxes as soon as he sees Vince, content that he's okay. 

"How are you feeling?" Vince asks, and Howard could laugh at him. 

"I've heard you say that so often these past few days that the words have lost all meaning." Vince snorts. He's holding a cold compress to Howard's head, he realises. "What's that for?" 

"Think fighting monsters when you're not a hundred percent was pushing it a bit." Vince explains, his classic 'I told you so' look on his face. "You overheated or your blood sugar was low or…" He sighs heavily, it’s the closest thing to self deprecation Howard’s ever heard from him. "Could have been any kind of wrongness really. But it was a lot and you went and fainted like a maiden in a romance novel. So I was fixing what I could deal with." 

That makes sense. Cooling him down was easy enough, and when he cared to look, there was a cheese sandwich and a fresh glass of water on the coffee table. Vince was prepared for him to wake and immediately fix the hunger problem. 

"I've got some paracetamol, you'll probably have a right headache."

Howard grins openly at him. "You'd make a pretty good doctor you know." 

Vince frowns comically. "Don't be stupid Howard. The nurses get much better uniforms." 

"Surprised you don't own one already." 

"Who says I don't." 

Howard's jaw drops of his own accord, and he looks at his friend from head to toe. A blush finds its way onto his face for reasons he’d rather not examine too closely - Vince cackles with laughter. 

Eventually, Howard finds it in himself to claw his way out of embarrassment and laugh too. “Tart.” He utters with as much affection as he can. 

The cold compress is taken off his head, his friend urging him into a sitting position and pressing the cheese sandwich into his hands. As he tucks into it he takes a moment to survey the state of the flat. There’s still soup all over the kitchen, and the rest of the place looks like a bomb site - don’t even get him started on their bedroom which was almost certainly still in ruins. He was no doubt going to be the one to clean it all up later.

"Naboo'll be back any minute." Vince says into the silence. And it feels like an ultimatum. 

In some ways it is. Howard knows what he's saying. This will be there last second alone for the next while, at least until they deal with this whole thing. 

Vince at least looks as nervous as Howard feels. He’s twisting a scrap of the wrapping paper the necklace had come in between his fingers anxiously. It was a shame about that necklace; it hadn’t really taken any time at all for him to decide on buying it. How could he not? As soon as he’d lain his eyes on it he’d known it was perfect for what he was trying to say. 

Yet trying to put words to it is a bit more difficult that he first imagined. Especially when you take into account everything that has occurred now. He knows he said things while he was delirious with fever - some of them he remembers - things that could not have been more honest, whispered under the cover of an illness like a secret. But he also knows he said things when he was conscious and _aware_. Hurtful things over the wreckage of their belongings that Vince hadn’t deserved. 

How does one even begin to sort through all of that and be emphatically understood. 

Setting the empty plate aside Howard decides he has to at least try. "Well. Okay there's- the thing is. Um." 

He's cut off by Vince grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling him into a kiss. 

It's less of a kiss and more of Howard being frozen with shock and Vince pressing himself as close as he can get without toppling them both over. But it's a gentle affair. Soft, like he’s also afraid Howard will shatter apart in his arms. It says more than Howard could have hoped to articulate. 

Vince gives him one more definitive peck before withdrawing. He’s grinning at him but it’s not wholly there; it's one of the pretend smiles he’s always used as a shield. All appeasement. Howard knows for certain what it means; that if he wants, Vince will retreat with his tail between his legs and this will never be mentioned again. He’s always been a people pleaser at heart. 

What Howard does say is, "You're _definitely_ going to get sick now." 

Vince throws his head back and cackles, joy and relief mixing in a giggled cocktail that is the most beautiful sound Howard has ever heard. 

He can't bring himself to laugh too much with him. Just gentle huffs of amusement as he watches on. He's too busy wondering how he's supposed to top that when he sets about trying to explain and apologise for everything in the last few months and then ask where they go from here. 

Because they do still have to talk. Perhaps even more so now. 

Neither of them gets a chance though. Vince starts to lean into him again, eyes drooping low and then - 

"What the hell happened to the shop?" 

Naboo is at the top of the stairs and he looks _furious_. Well, he does, until he really takes in the state of them both. Vince’s lip still split, tacky with fresh blood thanks to their activities. His hair is everywhere and he leans to the side a bit where he sits - a result of his aching side. Howard is certain he probably looks worse. Pale and half awake as he is. Then he says. "You two look like shit."

They both start laughing. 

_29\. It's a sequence that you never learned_   
_It's a lesson I will never forget_

Turns out it's a pretty simple fix, the whole thing, as it typically is where the shaman is involved. 

It’s a case of opening the door - and like they had expected the thing is gone. Most likely trapped inside of a box that is sealed with enough duct tape to fix the hole in the titanic.This prompts Naboo to raise his eyebrows at them in amusement (and dare he say a tiny bit of pride) before dipping to scoop the thing from the floor. He’d already mentioned his intention to send the thing off to a Zoo planet his mate Darren owned. 

"They're pretty harmless actually," He explains as he bends. 

Vince scoffs hard enough to jostle his aching ribs, "Tell that to my poor bruised bones."

"Yeah well, you got in the way of what it wanted." Naboo pointed out. "It's like the time you pushed that toddler in front of a juggernaut, remember?" 

He certainly does. Loathe as he is that everyone seems to bring it up every opportunity they get - it was not exactly his proudest moment - he does get the point. 

"So what is it?" 

"I don’t think humans have a word for it, but they’d call it a-." Naboo makes some frankly terrifying gurgling and clicking noises. He feels Howard recoil at his shoulder, he can only smirk, though. Still coursing with leftover adrenaline and high on the joy of a shared kiss he’s inappropriately giddy at the moment. 

“So… _What_ is it?” Howard asks this time, hesitantly, as if afraid to have that guttural sound repeated. 

“I guess you could say it’s a bit like a familiar.” As he explains it, Naboo looks over his shoulder fondly, to where Bollo is dutifully gathering smashed merchandise from the floor. “Only a bit different.” 

The vagueness of the Shaman is doing Howard’s head in, he can tell. The irritation radiating off him in waves; Vince knows if he doesn’t do something about it then Howard’s gonna be in a mood about it all night. “So what, they gave me my own familiar and it just turned out a bit bonkers?” 

It had been the right thing to say (as almost everything Vince says is) because Naboo’s eyes glint with irritation and he launches into a grumbled rant. "They're terrible for this kind of thing, those people you met. A lot of dimensions don't really interfere with each other - there's rules you know? But they reckon if something falls through their mirror it’s some sort of sign from the universe. Can’t wait to get involved." He shakes his head, disparagingly. “Bet they told you that you were a god or something, right?”

Vince doesn’t actually have to answer that one. Howard chokes on his own laughter while his gaze finds his feet in shame. Another reason to add to the list of why this was all his fault. 

"Do this all the time. Figures you’d fall for it." 

“Hey!” Vince tries to snap, but Howard is still laughing, it’s making him fight to stop his own amusement from showing. 

“Turns out your blessing wasn’t at all what they were after, then.” The taller man snickers. 

“So what, it was all just a big joke?” Vince asks again, not so disappointed about the whole god thing but more that he fell for it in the first place. 

“Not really, they’re delusional enough they probably believed you _were_ a god, and this-” Naboo gives the box a little shake that has him worrying about the creature inside. “Is supposed to be like a companion or somethin’. It links with you when you take the box. Feels what you feel. Meant to live by your side for eternity. That lovely stuff.” 

“I don’t understand,” Howard frowns between Vince and Naboo. “It was nicking all our stuff and trashing the flat. Doesn’t sound very ‘companion’ like.” 

For a second - the tiniest, briefest of moments - Naboo looks a little bit uncomfortable. But almost as soon as it’s manifested it’s gone again. Hidden away behind a mask of indifference. “Yeah, well, like I said it’s connected to Vince. ‘Course it’s gone a bit mental.” 

“What?” Both Vince and Howard ask at the same time. 

“Do I have to spell it out for you, ballbags.” There’s a sigh that seems much too large to have come from such a small man. “It _feels what Vince_ _feels._ Cast your mind back over the past couple of days yeah? I weren't even here and I know how bloody wound up he’s been. Jesus. Blind the pair of you.” 

They at least have the good graces to scuff their feet and cast guilty glances at each other. It starts to make a bit of sense now. Vince can feel his cheeks heating with embarrassment as he remembers holding in a tantrum in the shop Monday morning. Crying on their bedroom floor while Howard slept. Drowning in his own guilt over getting him ill. That poor tiny creature. 

“But why the stealing?” Thankfully Howard has taken over question time. Vince can’t tear his eyes away from the box, wondering how bad it could have been. Realises the extent of his bringing trouble into the flat this time. God what would have happened if they’d never called Naboo and carried on. Would it have kept escalating in response to Vince’s black moods. 

Not many people get to see the effect of their emotions personified, but he has, and he didn’t particularly like what he’d seen. 

“Suppose it was it’s way of coping with Vince’s inner turmoil.” The Shaman is considerate enough to express that sentiment as gently as he is capable of. “Consuming things it felt were part of the problem.”

“What, like the cutlery?” Vince jokes. Trying to poke holes in an explanation that’s putting too much of him on show. “I don’t think they did anything to offend me, Naboo.”

“No, I meant more things like Howard engraved bookmarks from Denmark or Scraps of a mirror ball suit you haven’t worn in months.” The delivery is deadpan but the eyes say _I told you so._ Vince needs to sit down. His head is spinning. “But once he got a mind of his own, _then_ he probably decided to eat whatever he wanted. Once they get an appetite they can go a bit mental - I’ll give you that.” 

Vince wrinkled his nose, not happy at all with that small and rather pointless victory. He can feel Howard’s eyes boring holes into the side of his face. On the bright side, was there any need to talk about anything now? Basically everything Vince has been going through has been ripping up their flat for the past two days. 

“Good thing we got it now, though, they just keep growing the more they eat. Eventually would have gotten too big to control.” Naboo snickers at their matching looks of horror. "Anyway. I'll take this to the shaman council. They'll deal with the race, no doubt hit them with another fine, not that it ever stops them handing these out like sweets to anyone who happens to pass through." 

"Have they done this before?" Vince croaks.

"Yup. I can’t remember how often, though, I don't really pay attention in the meetings." He shrugs and heads for the door. Box in hand. 

“Wait!” Vince calls, making Howard flinch at his volume. He gets over his embarrassment long enough to hurry after the tiny shaman. “What about Howard?” 

“Oh,” Naboo pauses, as if he’d forgotten about that part. “Yeah, he’s fine. Just disgusting human flu. _Stop_ going through my stuff or it might not be next time.” 

Outraged at being had, Vince darkens his features. Pulls his top lip back in a snarl but Naboo isn’t phased, just raises one eyebrow at him in challenge. He barely takes a step forward when the other is turning for the door again. “Come on Bollo, I think these prats need some time alone.” 

It is a _little_ funny how red Howard goes. 

_30\. 'Cause you brought out the best of me_   
_A part of me I'd never seen_   
_You took my soul wiped it clean_

The carpet has barely taken off and Vince has thrown himself into his arms again. 

Well it’s not so much throwing himself as it is him sagging towards him with a muffled sound - the noise suspended somewhere between relief and worry - as he’d buried his face into the taller man’s chest. 

Trying to protest is futile; finds that his brain and body don't agree when it comes to Vince Noir. The brain very much thinks they’ve got too much to discuss to lose themselves to this just yet. But then there’s his body, that wants so badly to offer comfort to his friend. Comfort he deserves after everything that’s just come to light about their suspected monster. 

Howard is starting to think Vince had a point when he said that he had a tendency to be a little self involved. Yes, he’d known Vince was probably having a bit of a tough time while he was sick. He hadn’t for a second imagined the real depth of struggle he was experiencing though.

He easily throws his arms around the shorter man’s shoulders and pulls him close (carefully he knows he’s aching too), brushes his nose to the fruity smelling raven hair and lets himself relax into the hug. 

As if sensing this shift between them, Vince draws back carefully. He searches Howard’s face for a moment before taking his hand and leading him back up the stairs to the sofa. Perhaps now is the time for conversation, Howard thinks. 

He's found himself folded onto the sofa with Vince's tongue in his mouth before he can get one syllable out. 

It’s clear what this is. 

Well, it isn’t really. Not in the slightest. Romance as a whole could not be _less_ clear to Howard Moon - but he thinks he’s heard about this kind of thing. It's a response to the adrenaline. Or the care taking. Maybe the gift or their fight. Perhaps even just the emotional turmoil. 

Really it could be all of it rolling into one confused mess inside Vince’s head and convincing him that this - a physical act of some description - is going to be the best way to process it all. 

Yes. That’s probably it. And Howard hates it, but it's a possibility that it’s not what the other man _actually_ wants. 

Try telling the rest of his body that though. 

This is his third kiss ever and he’s reluctant to be a passive party in it. Vince’s tongue has found its way in between his parted lips, drawing over Howard’s own and ripping an embarrassingly high pitched moan from his throat. Rather than flailing (like they had the first time) or laying prone (like they had the second) his hands have found themselves dancing over whatever parts of Vince he can reach because he doesn’t know where the _proper_ place to put them is. What's the etiquette here? Palms ghost against shoulder blades, fingertips dance over hips, brush hesitantly on thighs that at some point had settled either side of his hips as the man climbed into his lap. 

The only thing he doesn’t dare go near is the hair.

Eventually, huffing a breathless laugh into their kiss, Vince plucks at his wrists and plant them firmly on his waist. Following this lead, he grips lightly and it makes his partner shiver. Vince’s own digits are brushing through the curls at the base of his skull; the other palm pressed to his cheek and keeping his head at an angle. 

Howard obviously just does what those hands want him to. Tilts his head obediently as he’s guided. He learns best by doing, and no one could be a better teacher than Vince in these matters. When he gets brave enough to start using his tongue (a frankly awkward affair) trying to replicate the gentle way Vince had teased at his mouth, the other man practically _purrs_ wordless praise at him for his efforts and it does wonders for his ego. 

It’s Vince that draws back first, his grin feline as he pants for breath. Those cobalt eyes are blown wide with pleasure, cheeks flushed to match. He looks for all the world like the cat that got the cream as his gaze darts all over Howard’s form. He can only sit there and let Vince look at him. 

It is long enough for his brain to catch up, unfortunately. Subsequently he finds himself turning his face away when Vince dips for his mouth again, winces when Vince _whines_ at him for it. 

"What's the matter?" He asks, noses at the rise of Howard’s cheekbone. 

"We should talk before we do… Th- That." 

Vince snickers at him, lips tracking feather light kisses over his cheek. "I thought we’d be on the same page by now?" 

Howard dumbly shakes his head, effectively dislodging the other from his path. Vince presses himself into a more upright position with two hands planted firmly on his chest. Tongue peeking out to lick his lips as he stares down at him. 

Surprisingly, he agrees easily. He removes himself from Howard's lap and sits with his legs crossed facing him on the sofa. The feline grin recedes, instead replaced with the kind of smile that is softer around the edges. Encouraging. "Okay, then. Go on."

"Wh- me?" 

"Yeah. You said you wanted to talk."

Howard did say that, didn’t he? Honestly, he hadn’t thought this far ahead in that decision. It had sounded like the right thing to say at the time but now - well, he hadn't known how much he’d miss Vince’s weight in his lap until now. 

"I just… I don't want you to feel like you have to-" He starts, gestures with one hand to the entirety of his body, Vince giggles at him for his effort. "Because the past few days have been _a lot_ and maybe we should take some time to decompress and- and I’ve read that-" 

"Why’d you buy me that necklace Howard?" 

Vince has always been very good at taking Howard's rambling and directing it in order to get some sort of sense from him. 

Howard sighs heavily, decides there's no point in trying to dance around the topic anymore. This was the conversation he'd wanted when he bought the thing after all. It seems as good a time as any to have it.

"As an apology, of sorts." he admits. Then decides that isn’t honest _enough_ and adds quickly. "A plea really." 

"What for?" And Vince is watching him patiently, as if he already knows all these answers but wants to hear the words directly from the horse’s mouth. 

"For you to stay." A tiny little nod of the head, telling him to go on. "Because I'm terrified that you don't like me anymore. You're just - always seem to have somewhere better to be than with me. Someone better to see. I was scared. It felt like we were on the verge of not being able to get this back." His hands twist against each other to the point of pain. “And I know - I _know_ I’ve done some terrible things that I can’t take back. But this… We’re…” 

It's perhaps the most painful and awkward and embarrassing things he's ever had to admit and he finds he just runs out of words to properly categorise all of it. Sitting here now, pouring his heart out. It’s difficult to not feel a little bit like a tit. Yet at the same time - having put it out there he feels so much better.

“We’ve both done things we can’t take back, Howard.” Vince says firmly, a comfort and a fact rolled into one. 

“I’ve always been terrified I could never be the kind of friend you wanted." Vince whispers, leaning his body forward like he's sharing a great secret. Perhaps he is. He looks just as embarrassed by it as Howard did. "After Milky Joe I thought that was it - tried to make as many new friends so that when you eventually chucked me I wouldn't feel so pathetic."

Howard doesn't know what to say. 

"Didn't really work though." Vince shrugs, self deprecating. "Even when you did leave it wasn't the same. None of them are you. And then when you came back I was so mad at you for going I sort of forgot to you know, appreciate you being around again." 

"I should never have left." Howard blurts, unthinking. 

This, at least, seems to pull a genuine smile from Vince. “Don’t start that game,” He says fondly. “We’d be here for hours confessing all the things we shouldn’t have done to each other and it’d get well boring.” 

Howard tuts at him, faux reprimanding. “You’re not supposed to call heart to hearts boring, Vince.” 

"Yeah well. It's all done now ain't it?" He sighs, but it’s an affectionate thing. “Yeah you shouldn’t have left, but maybe I shouldn’t have ignored our band for ages - or sold you out for a cape after _you_ chose a coconut over me, and I shouldn’t have-”

“Yeah alright,” Chuckling, Howard shakes his head. “I get your point, we messed up.” 

“And now we know we make sure not to do it again.” Simple as that in the world of Vince Noir, Howard supposes. 

They both watch one another, evaluating, like they’re waiting for the other to declare they’ve had enough and storm from the room. But from where Howard is sitting Vince doesn't look anything but relieved. Maybe he feels the same as Howard. The weight off your chest outweighs the embarrassment of sharing such personal feelings. 

“Are you okay?” He asks eventually, the question probably more important than any of their other conversations given everything they have just learnt about their otherworldly invader. 

Vince takes a moment to consider this, Howard sees the varying emotions pass over his face. Annoyance and relief and happiness before he settles on something decidedly more tired. “It was not good for a bit there. I don’t know how you do it all the time. Worrying about people.” He answers, painfully honest in his admission. “And on top of that you- you said a lot of things to me, y’know with the fever an’ all. I guess it sent me a bit wrong for a while trying to process what it meant - just being daft really. You were sick.” 

The way he shrugs and averts his gaze is an attempt at shrugging the whole thing off - it’s offering Howard an out. If he really didn’t want to take this to its logical conclusion he had the option of walking away from it. Blaming it all on the fever. 

Howard had no such intention. “Well I can say them again, if you’d like. No fever involved.” And the way Vince’s gaze whips back up to him; a fresh face of joy blossoming on his features. It prompts him to breathe, "I'm not going anywhere, Vince. Ever."

"Me either," He promises in return.

"Can we just. Maybe start to move on now?" It doesn't sound as cool as it could have. He was sure he'd thought it better than that. In the end with how run down and he is from the flu it's a bit more of a rasp than a sensual whisper. 

Vince grins at him regardless. "Is that your way of asking to kiss me again?" 

"No!" Howard says defensively. Cheeks heating. "I meant in general. Overall. In our friendship we can move on. Get back to normal." 

"Oh okay, so _just friends_ then." Vince teases. "Definitely no more kissing" 

"I didn't-" Howard suddenly feels so out of his depth. "Vince." 

They both hear the beg in his voice and Vince chuckles, slowly inserting himself into Howard's lap. It doesn't help the blushing. 

"Just one question, Howard."

"Uh huh?" 

"Is my necklace a sign you want to be my _boyfriend_?" 

"I mean-" That sputtering again. "That wasn't its original intention but I suppose… In light of recent discussions, and now that we know where we stand, I think perhaps-" 

"Yes or no question, Howard." 

"Yes." 

Vince plants a kiss on his mouth, and then on his cheek, grinning into his stubble. 

"I'll have to get you another one." He sighs, a little distraught at the thought of such a meaningful declaration tossed into the mouth of a monster. "Since you gave that one to your _familiar_." 

Vince leans back with a sly look, digs around in his pocket with one hand and with a flourish produces the necklace. Howard is struck dumb. 

"But.. But you threw it." 

"Nah." Vince grins. "Pulled the dog trick didn't I? The old _‘I definitely threw it, boy, go have a look’_ " He looks down at the moon resting gently in the palm of his hand. "Told you. No way was I going to let something this pretty fall into the hands of a monster."

"You're brilliant." Howard grins up at him. 

"I know." Vince pecks an affectionate kiss to his forehead then gets to his feet. "And I think we've both earned the right to sleep for at least a week." 

"But," As much as he’d love nothing more than to retreat into their own little world right now - Howard looks around at the mess of their living room. "The shop and our bedroom and-" 

"Naboo will sort it." Vince promises. "He's got all sorts of spells. I'm sure one of 'em will put everything back the way it’s supposed to be."

It's a testament to how tired he is that he just agrees, places his hand in Vince's easily and laces their fingers together. They wander off to the bedroom. 

_31\. We can't be friends_

One week later, Vince gets sick with the flu. 

**Author's Note:**

> All songs used as section headers can be found here: 
> 
> Spotify  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5GWvFQ7EUXrPJHTblaxRE6?si=tuBkkSVYSICF-7XllhARWg  
> Youtube:  
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLSX3mItAbj4E00Us38Lj-ALtxoif7yQiB
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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